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"Myra — Mr.  Broakley — Mr.  Broakley,  my  daughter  Myra" 


A  KNIGHT 
HOMESPUN 


BY  JOHN  CHARLES  SPOTH 


THE  C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 

1909 


PS 
3537 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 

BY 

THE  C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  Co. 

BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 

u.  s.  A. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


IN  LOSING  MEMORY  OF 
Mr  BROTHER  EDWARD 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Winding  Up  ......  i 

Tick  I               4 

Tick  II 12 

Tick  III 17 

Tick  IV 25 

Tick  V 33 

Tick  VI 40 

Tick  VII 48 

Tick  VIII 54 

Tick  IX 61 

Tick  X 68 

Tick  XI 76 

Tick  XII 83 

Tick  XIII 91 

Tick  XIV 100 

Tick  XV 108 

Tick  XVI 117 

Tick  XVII 126 

Tick  XVIII 135 

Tick  XIX  ......  145 

Tick  XX 155 


Page 

Tick  XXI 167 

Tick  XXII 178 

Tick  XXIII 188 

Tick  XXIV 198 

Tick  XXV 208 

Tick  XXVI 219 

Tick  XXVII 229 

Tick  XXVIII 241 

Tick  XXIX 253 

Tick  XXX 264 

Tick  XXXI 275 

Tick  XXXII 286 

Tick  XXXIII 296 

Tick  XXXIV 308 

Running  Down         .         .          .         .         .321 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Myra — Mr.  Broakley— Mr.  Broakley,  my 

daughter  Myra"          .          .  Frontispiece 

Page 

"My  name  is  James  Carbon.     I  am  looking 

for  work  on  a  farm  "  ...          5 

— and  fall  a  limp  mass   at  your  feet — and 

beside  that  of  her  Richard  .          .       53 

Carbon  drew  himself  erect,  as  if  he  would 

check  any  possible  weakness         .  115 

Myra  gave  a  start,  as  if  her  heart  had  been 

pierced  by  an  arrow  .          .          .188 

"  Pardon  me,  Madame,  but  did  you  drop 

your  handkerchief?"  .          .          .     263 

"  Merciful  God !     Can  this  be  true,  or  am  I 

dreaming  ? "  .          .          .          .     295 

Jim   and   Myra,   arm  in   arm,   like  lovers, 

walked  in  the  cool  of  the  evening          ,     313 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

WINDING  UP 

IT  SEEMS  odd,  doesn't  it,  to  you,  dear  reader, 
to  begin  reading  a  book  starting  with  the  winding 
up  ?  But,  then,  you  must  remember  that  I  am 
the  family  clock,  and  that  did  I  not  begin  with 
the  winding  up,  there  would  be  no  tale  told. 

Yes,  I  am  the  old  family  clock.  I  recall  very 
well  the  first  time  I  was  set  up  in  the  wide  hallway 
of  the  old  family  homestead  of  the  Boosch  family — 
Dr.  Henry  Boosch  of  the  original  pioneers  of 
that  name  who  settled  in  Monroe  County,  Pennsyl 
vania,  in  the  early  fifties.  My,  how  they  all 
stood  around  me  and  watched  my  hands  move 
and  my  pendulum  swing  away  the  fleeting  mo 
ments!  What  an  innovation  I  was  in  the  old 
homestead  that  had  known  naught  but  the  sun 
dial  and  the  marks  on  the  porch  uprights  to 
indicate  the  hours  of  the  day  when  the  sun  shone. 
And  when  the  days  were  dark  and  gloomy,  what 
cared  any  one  for  these  old,  time-honored  methods 
of  telling  time,  when  they  could  look  at  my  new, 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

shining  face,  with  the  hours  and  minutes  marked 
off  by  figures  made  of  gold. 

My!  My!  but  that  was  long  ago!  And  what 
changes  I  have  seen  since  then!  What  joy  and 
sadness,  recurring  with  each  birth  and  death 
within  the  domain  of  that  sanctified  hall,  have 
I  seen!  How  the  memories  arise  of  the  joyous 
faces  that  gazed  upon  me  on  the  announcement 
of  a  new  arrival  in  the  household  of  the  Boosches; 
and,  again,  how  well  I  remember  the  subdued 
tones  and  the  half-audible  sobs  when  I  was  looked 
upon  for  the  hour  of  the  departure  of  the  cold, 
immortal  clay  that  was  never  again  to  look  upon 
my  face. 

And  the  weddings  that  I  have  seen!  Mary 
and  John,  Jennie  and  Joseph,  Kate  and  William, 
Laura  and  the  good,  kind,  old  doctor,  whose 
every  thought  was  for  the  unfortunate  and  who 
forgot  his  own  world-troubles  in  the  desire  to 
alleviate  the  sufferings  of  the  unfortunate  pioneers 
of  those  days  when  the  tilling  of  the  soil  and 
the  hewing  of  the  forests  were  accomplished  only 
by  dint  of  the  hardest  work. 

And,  my!  How  I  have  followed  the  fortunes 
of  the  Boosch  family  from  the  time  I  was  installed 
in  the  hallway  up  to  the  time  I  was  relegated 
to  the  spare  room  in  the  attic  of  the  new  domicile 
in  the  town  of  East  Stroudsburg,  where  my  poor 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

old,  worn-out  body  was  replaced  by  a  more  modern, 
up-to-date  clock,  which  did  not  repose  in  the  hall 
way  as  I  did  of  yore,  but  was  awarded  the  place 
of  honor  on  the  parlor  mantel.  Ah,  well!  I  am 
still  able  to  tick  off  the  moments,  up  here  in  the 
attic,  with  the  spirits  of  those  who  have  gone 
before,  and  now,  before  I  am  taken  away,  to 
God  only  knows  where,  I  shall  tick  off  the  story 
of  one  of  the  best  men  that  ever  trod  the  roads 
and  crossroads  of  this  country — plain  Jim  Carbon, 
we  used  to  call  him,  but  now  Mister  James  Car 
bon,  if  you  please.  And  so,  being  only  a  plain, 
old-fashioned  family  clock,  I  shall  tick  off  my 
story  in  my  own  plain,  old-fashioned  way. 


TICK  THE  FIRST 

How  well  I  remember  the  day  when  Jim 
Carbon  came  to  the  old  homestead  of  the  Boosches, 
looking  for  work.  Plain,  scrawny,  with  big 
knobs  of  knuckles,  he  was  the  personification  of 
what  you  would  call  a  hard-working  boy — or 
man,  rather,  for  he  had  just  passed  the  age  of 
twenty-one.  And  what  a  pleasant  face  he  had. 
With  his  bundle  on  his  back,  suspended  from  a 
stick  slung  across  his  shoulder,  he  timidly  knocked 
at  the  door  and  inquired  if  the  man  of  the  house 
was  in.  Mary,  the  girl  of  all  work,  answered 
the  summons,  and,  surveying  Jim  with  a  critical 
eye,  although  tramps  were  unknown  hereabouts 
in  those  days,  concluded  that  he  might  step  into 
the  hallway  but  no  further. 

"Doctor,"  she  called  up  the  stairway,  "here 
is  some  person  wants  to  see  the  man  of  the  house." 

Slowly  and  with  the  tread  of  a  man  who  was 
approaching  the  sere  of  life,  the  doctor  came 
down  the  stairs,  his  clean-shaven  face  benignant 
and  radiant. 

"Well,  young  man,"  he  said  in  his  usual  kindly 
way — he  never  was  any  different  to  any  one, 


"My  name  is  James  Carbon.     I  am  looking  for  work  on  a  farm" 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

whether  poor  or  rich,  honest  or  dishonest — 
"what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

The  young  man,  timidly  turning  his  hat  around 
several  times,  looked  the  good  doctor  in  the  face 
with  those  big  brown  eyes  I  learned  to  know 
so  well,  and  in  a  voice  that  was  a  little  tremulous 
for  a  man,  said: 

"My  name  is  James  Carbon.  I  am  looking 
for  work  on  a  farm.  I  have  been  brought  up  to 
it — never  knew  anything  else." 

Here  he  apologetically  exhibited  his  big  hardened 
hands  to  the  doctor,  who  asked  him: 

"And  where  do  you  come  from,  pray,  and 
why  are  you  wandering  around  at  this  time  of 
year  ?" 

"My  story  is  a  short  one,"  said  Carbon.  "I 
was  born  in  the  little  town  of  Egg  Harbor,  in 
the  state  of  New  Jersey,  and  had  lived  there  ever 
since.  But  the  home  which  I  had  known  all  my 
life  was  broken  up  when  my  father  and  mother 
were  both  taken  ill  and  died  from  pneumonia. 
They  had  worked  hard  for  many  years  and  had 
almost  cleared  the  farm  of  the  mortgage.  After 
the  funeral — they  had  both  been  buried  on  the 
same  day — I  left  the  old  home,  never  wishing  to 
see  it  again.  Aye,  I  could  not  even  bear  to  remain 
in  the  same  town.  I  told  a  lawyer  to  sell  the  place, 
put  the  money  in  bank  to  my  credit,  packed  up 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

a  few  things,  and  have  wandered  about  ever 
since,  looking  for  a  new  home.  I  have  no  recom 
mendation,  never  having  worked  for  any  one  but 
my  father,  and  that  seems  to  be  against  me. 
If  you  want  to,  sir,  you  can  write  to  my  lawyer. 
He  has  known  me  from  babyhood.  His  name 
is—" 

"Never  mind  his  name,"  said  the  doctor; 
"writing  does  not  make  a  man's  character.  I 
think  I  am  a  pretty  good  judge  of  human  nature, 
and  your  face  is  the  only  recommendation  I  want. 
I  have  need  for  a  strong  young  fellow  like  you, 
and  if  you  want  hard  work  for  little  money  you 
can  make  yourself  at  home  here  as  long  as  you 
want  to." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  work,  sir,"  said  Jim.  "  I 
have  been  used  to  that  since  I  was  eleven  years 
of  age." 

"Very  well,  then,  young  man,  you  can  take 
your  'duds'  upstairs,  and  when  you  are  ready 
you  can  sit  down  and  have  a  good  meal.  I  like 
your  face,  and  I  am  sure  we  will  get  along  very 
well  together." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jim,  with  a  sign  of 
a  tear  in  his  eye.  "I  shall  try  to  be  worthy  of 
your  confidence  in  me.  You  shall  never  regret 
your  kind  words  to  me — the  first  I  have  had  since 
my  parents'  death." 

6 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Mary,"  called  the  doctor,  "show  this  young 
man  the  spare  room  in  the  attic,  and  when  he 
comes  down  see  that  he  gets  a  good,  warm  meal 
as  soon  as  you  can  get  it  ready." 

And  that  is  how  Jim  Carbon  was  installed 
in  the  homestead  of  the  Boosch  family  and  became 
identified  with  the  characters  in  the  story  I  am 
now  ticking  off. 

Mary  ushered  Jim  up  to  a  neat,  cozy  room  in 
the  attic — not  a  storeroom,  by  any  means,  let 
me  tell  you,  but  a  tastily  arranged  room — such 
a  one  as  many  a  man  in  the  crowded  cities  would 
envy.  The  old-fashioned  iron  bedstead  looked 
as  clean  and  comfortable  as  a  tired  man  could 
wish,  the  little  homely  washstand  was  immaculately 
white,  and  on  the  walls  hung  pictures — chromos, 
it  is  true,  but  of  such  human  interest  subjects 
that  they  appealed  to  the  eye  which  knew  not  the 
value  of  pictures  as  measured  by  dollars  and  cents. 

"This  is  a  pretty  comfortable  room,  Mr. — er?" 
remarked  Mary. 

"Carbon,"  said  Jim.  "James  Carbon  is  my 
name." 

And  he  bowed  with  a  grace  becoming  a  chevalier. 

"I  hope  you  will  like  your  home  here,  Mr. 
Carbon,"  continued  Mary,  returning  with  a 
curtsey  the  bow.  "You  will  find  the  doctor 
a  very  good,  kind,  Christian  man,  and  Mrs. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Boosch  you  will  find  to  be  as  good,  kind,  and 
Christian  a  woman.  Miss  Boosch  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  young  ladies  I  have  ever  met  in  my 
life — one  cannot  help  but  love  her,  and  I  envy 
Mr.  Broakley  the  prize  he  will  soon  win." 

"You  make  me  feel  quite  interested,  Miss — " 

"Mary  Lash  is  my  name,  Mr.  Carbon." 

"You  make  me  feel  quite  interested  in  the 
family,  Miss  Lash.  I  hope  we  shall  be  good 
friends." 

He  extended  his  hard,  knobby  hand,  which 
was  taken  with  dainty  grace  by  Mary,  who  said 
in  a  voice  that  was  not  lacking  in  sweetness: 

"I  am  sure  that  we  shall  be.  There  is  some 
thing  about  the  environment  of  this  house  that 
seems  to  make  all  well  disposed  toward  one  an 
other.  If  you  will  be  down  in  ten  minutes,  Mr. 
Carbon,  you  will  find  a  good  meal  ready  for  you 
in  the  kitchen." 

"I  thank  you  ever  so  much,"  said  Jim,  with  a 
tremulous  voice;  "it  seems  so  good  to  me  to  hear 
a  voice  of  welcome  after  my  weary  wandering, 
and  I  shall  certainly  do  what  I  can  to  repay  those 
who  have  given  me  this  welcome." 

When  Mary  left  the  room  Jim  sat  down  on 
the  plain  wooden  chair  for  a  moment,  and  with 
his  head  between  his  hands  offered  up  a  prayer 
to  the  Almighty  that  He  might  bless  his  days 

8 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  the  days  of  all  in  the  homestead  in  which 
he  hoped  to  make  his  home  for  many  years  to 
come.  He  was  a  Christian,  God-fearing  man, 
and  never  failed  to  speak  with  his  Maker  in  the 
crucial  periods  of  his  life. 

When  he  had  "fixed  himself  up  a  bit"  he 
descended  the  stairs  to  the  kitchen.  And  what 
a  kitchen  that  was!  Why  should  a  man — no 
matter  what  station  in  life  he  occupied — ever 
want  to  eat  in  any  other  place  than  in  such 
a  kitchen  ?  How  everything  shone  and  glinted 
in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  as  they  gleamed 
through  the  windows — not  one  or  two — but  three 
of  them — which  fronted  the  western  portion  of 
the  room.  And  there  were  more  windows,  too, 
on  the  other  sides  of  the  room.  And  each  seemed 
to  give  a  kaleidoscopic  view  of  well-tilled  fields, 
variegated  by  the  various  crops  now  in  the  fullness 
of  harvest,  well-kept  fences  and  model  outhouses, 
with  the  neighboring  farmhouses  silhouetted  against 
the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  What  a  picture  it  was 
— one  that  emblazoned  itself  in  the  memory  of 
Jim  many,  many  times  in  the  years  that  fate  had 
decreed  he  should  spend  away  from  that  scene. 

And  when  he  had  finished  his  meal  Mary  told 
him  that  the  doctor  wished  to  see  him  and  make 
him  acquainted  with  the  family.  He  was  ushered 
into  the  "back  parlor,"  and  there  he  was  intro- 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

duced  to  Mrs.  Boosch.  What  a  resemblance 
there  was  to  his  sainted  mother — so  much  so 
that  he  should  have  loved  to  imprint  a  kiss  upon 
her  lips  and  call  in  the  old-time  way,  "Mother!" 
A  tear  stole  down  his  cheek  as  he  said,  in  response 
to  the  introduction: 

"Mrs.  Boosch,  I  feel  honored  in  being  per 
mitted  to  be  one  of  your  household,  no  matter 
in  what  humble  capacity." 

And  then  he  was  introduced  to  Arthur  Boosch, 
the  young  gentleman  of  the  family,  who  shook 
hands  with  him  as  heartily  as  if  he  were  a  long- 
lost  brother. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Carbon — or  Jim,  as  I  will 
have  to  call  you  hereafter,  I  suppose — I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  the  last,  but  not  least,  of  my 
family,  Miss  Myra.  Myra,  this  is  James  Carbon, 
who  is  going  to  join  our  household  for,  let  us  hope, 
many  years  to  come." 

"I  am  pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Carbon.  I 
wish  you  many  years  of  happiness  in  your  new 
home." 

Jim  looked  up  and  saw  as  lovely  a  vision  of 
feminine  beauty  and  grace  of  figure  as  any  artist 
could  hope  to  behold  in  his  most  inspired  moments. 

What  a  lovable  face,  what  queenly  grace  as 
she  extended  her  dimpled  little  hand — not  in  a 
cold,  formal  way,  but  with  a  "womanly  manly/' 

10 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

if  I  may  be  permitted  to  use  the  expression, 
grasp  that  meant  earnestness,  sincerity,  and 
honesty  of  greeting. 

"Miss  Boosch,"  he  said,  his  face  becoming 
almost  scarlet  as  the  warmth  of  each  response 
to  the  introduction  sent  the  blood  coursing  through 
his  veins,  "I  thank  you;  I  thank  you  all.  I  have 
known  a  happy  home  like  this,  and  I  assure  you 
that  my  prayers  each  night  will  be  that  God  will 
bless  this  household  and  reward  you  all  for  the 
kind  words  you  have  said  to  one  who  has  been  a 
wanderer  because  he  could  not  bear — " 

Here  Jim  broke  down  completely,  and  sobbing 
like  a  child,  unceremoniously  left  the  room. 

"Mother,"  said  Dr.  Boosch  to  his  wife,  who  was 
surreptitiously  engaged  in  wiping  the  furrows 
under  her  eyes,  "  I  think  that  young  man  is  a  good 
young  man." 

What  a  voluminous  expression  was  conveyed 
in  those  few  words,  coming  from  such  a  man  as 
Dr.  Boosch! 


II 


TICK  THE  SECOND 

I  HAVE  transgressed  in  speaking  of  the  beauty 
and  grace  of  Myra  Boosch.  But  I  could  not 
resist.  The  memory,  as  I  am  ticking  off  this  tale, 
of  her  sweet  face  gazing  upon  me  as  she  looked  for 
the  appointed  hour  when  he — HE,  mind  you, 
for  in  a  girl's  life  there  is  only  one  HE — was  to  come, 
was  too  inspiriting  to  resist.  But  I  will  have  to 
begin  at  the  very  beginning  to  describe  the  early 
days  of  one  so  good,  so  true,  so  trusting,  that 
her  future  life  hung  as  on  a  thread  owing  to  that 
very  trusting  good  heart  of  hers. 

One  beautiful  spring  morning,  as  I  was  droning, 
as  you  might  say,  the  early  hours  away,  the  good 
doctor  came  into  the  hallway  and  looked  up  at 
my  face,  saying,  in  a  confidential  sort  of  a  way — 
mind  you,  to  me! — "Clock,  tell  me,  will  it  be  a 
boy  or  a  girl  ?  You  know,  dear  old  clock,  that 
what  I  wish,  above  all,  is  a  daughter  to  grace  my 
household — one  who  might  have  her  mother's 
beautiful  face,  her  mother's  lovable  heart,  one 
who  could  personify  in  her  offspring  a  reflection  of 
her  whom  I  have  loved  all  these  years,  and  who, 
in  all  my  trials  and  tribulations,  has  been  the  one 

12 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

upon  whom  I  have  leaned  most  heavily.  Tell 
me,  good  clock,"  he  further  philosophized,  "tell 
me,  I  beseech  you,  are  my  prayers  to  be  heard  ?" 

And  what  could  I  say,  do  you  imagine,  being 
only  a  family  clock,  set  out  in  the  hallway  ostensibly 
to  indicate  the  time  of  day — and  night,  too,  for 
that  matter  ? 

But,  then,  all  things  come  out  right  in  the  end, 
and,  sure  enough,  as  the  sun  was  going  down  in 
a  golden  blaze  of  glory,  the  good  doctor,  with 
beaming,  smiling  face,  looked  up  at  me  and  said: 

"Well,  Mr.  Clock,  you  have  had  your  wish" — 
as  if  it  had  been  my  wish  instead  of  his — "it 
is  a  daughter." 

And  how  radiant  was  his  face  as  it  beamed 
on  me!  What  a  wonder  that  he  did  not  shake 
hands  with  me!  Little  did  he  think,  then,  of 
the  troubled  waters  that  her  ship  of  life  was  to 
encounter.  But  why  should  he  think  of  aught, 
now,  but  of  the  blessing  bestowed  upon  him — 
of  his  wish  gratified  ?  A  daughter!  How  often 
he  repeated,  in  his  melodious  voice,  to  me,  "Well, 
Mr.  Clock,  we  have  in  this  house,  now,  a  daughter. 
Miss  Boosch!  How  does  that  sound  to  you — 
eh,  Mr.  Clock  ?" 

And  then  he  chuckled  to  himself  and  paced 
up  and  down  the  hallway  a  dozen  times,  as  if 
unable  to  still  the  emotions  that  were  welling  up 

'3 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

in  his  heart.  And  how  many  times  he  went  into 
the  room  where  mother  and  child  were,  and 
finally  brought  the  infant  in  his  arms  to  introduce 
her  to  me.  I  verily  believe  that  he  loved  me  as 
one  of  the  family.  He  held  up  before  me  the 
prettiest,  chubbiest,  cutest  mite  of  a  baby  that  it 
was  ever  the  pleasure  of  a  human  being — much 
less  of  a  poor,  old-fashioned  family  clock  like  me 
— to  behold.  I  could  almost  imagine — how  foolish 
of  me,  don't  you  think  ? — that  the  precious  burden 
he  was  holding  in  his  arms  was  counting  the 
minutes  I  was  ticking  off.  It  was  a  silly  notion 
of  mine,  I  am  sure,  but  I  really  believed  it  at  the 
time. 

How  I  watched  that  baby  grow!  My,  how  the 
time  slipped  by!  It  seems  almost  incredible 
to  me  that  in  so  short  a  time  she  could  have  grown 
from  the  tiny  baby  she  was  into  a  girl  "crawling 
unwilling  to  school."  How  well  I  remember  her, 
as  with  "shining  morning  face"  she  looked  up 
at  me,  with  her  schoolbag  thrown  over  her  shoul 
ders,  her  hands  encased  in  the  mittens  that  her 
mother  had  knitted,  as  if  such  things  could  not  be 
bought  at  the  store  just  as  good  as  those  she  made. 

And  then,  year  by  year,  I  watched  her  blossom 
into  that  period  of  life  when  a  girl  thinks  she  no 
longer  is  a  girl,  but  wants  every  one  to  know  that 
she  has  passed  to  womanhood  and  is  not  to  be 

«4 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

addressed  by  her  given  name  unless  it  is  prefixed 
by  "Miss." 

Can  I  ever  forget  the  party  that  her  father  and 
mother  gave  her  in  honor  of  her  eighteenth  birth 
day  ?  No,  not  if  I  am  dismembered  and  sent 
away,  piece  by  piece,  shall  I  ever  forget  that  merry 
party.  What  a  vision  of  loveliness  she  was! 
And  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  thought  so,  I  can 
tell  you.  There  was  many  a  young  man  envied 
me,  you  may  believe,  when  she  came  out  into  the 
hall  and  placed  her  arms  around  me  in  that 
affectionate  way  of  hers,  and  wished  that  he,  too, 
could  be  the  old  family  clock  and  feel  those  arms 
around  him.  I  honestly  believe  that  she  loved 
me  from  the  day  that  her  father  brought  her  from 
the  maternal  room  and  introduced  me  to  her. 
And  when  she  came  near  me,  it  is  a  wonder  that 
I  did  not  tick  faster  and  run  far  ahead  of  time, 
for  I,  too,  loved  her  as  only  an  old  family  clock 
can  learn  to  love  those  whom  destiny  has  decreed 
should  cross  the  threshold  of  the  home  where  it 
is  placed. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  dear  reader,  reading 
the  ticking  off  of  this  tale,  what  a  symphony  of 
griefs  and  sorrows,  of  joys  and  pleasures,  passes 
before  an  old  family  clock  ?  Have  you  ever 
looked  upon  the  clock  on  your  mantel  shelf  and 
soliloquized : 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Well,  old  clock,  we  have  seen  days  of  happiness 
and  care  together,  haven't  we  ?" 

Only  to  have  the  clock  repeat  the  refrain, 
"We  have,  haven't  we  ?  We  have,  haven't  we  ?" 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  when  all  is  quiet  about 
the  house,  when  your  thoughts  are  engrossed  in 
the  past,  listen  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  clock 
and  see  if  the  refrain  is  not  "We  have,  haven't 
we  ?" — just  as  the  threnody  of  the  katydid  is 
"Katydid,  Katy  didn't." 

And  haven't  you  thought,  dear  reader,  how 
the  old  family  clock  has  been  a  mute  witness  to 
your  silly  family  quarrels,  when  you  magnified 
them  and  thought  that  life  was  not  worth  the 
living,  only  to  feel  in  the  morning,  after  the  dis 
passionate  sleep  and  rest  of  the  night,  that  you 
had  been  hasty,  and  that  the  imprinted  kiss 
of  forgiveness  and  beg-to-be-forgiven-ness  was 
sweeter  far  than  the  betrothal  kiss?  Ah,  yes! 
I  cannot  refrain  from  being  a  little  bit  egotistical 
and  reminding  you  that  the  ticking  of  the  clock 
is  as  the  pulsating  beats  of  the  human  heart. 
We  have  our  stories  of  life  and  death,  of  sorrow 
and  joy,  just  as  your  heartbeats  are  ticking  away 
the  seconds,  minutes,  and  hours  of  your  life, 
with  its  joys  and  sorrows. 

But  I  am  becoming  selfish  in  my  recital  of  my 
affinity  to  humanity,  and  will  stop  and  lead  on  to: 

16 


TICK  THE  THIRD 

ON  THAT  memorable — to  others,  as  well  as 
to  me — birthday  party  of  Miss  Myra  Boosch  there 
was  one  in  the  gay  throng  of  guests  ushered  into 
the  presence  of  the  hosts,  who  had  never  before 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  homestead,  and  yet 
seemed  to  be  well  known  to  those  present. 

This  person  was  Richard  Broakley.  I  am 
able,  in  my  homely  way,  to  describe  a  lovely 
woman,  but  who  can  describe  a  handsome 
man — more  than  to  say  that  he  was  handsome  ? 
Can  you  go  into  rhapsodies  about  his  hair,  his 
beautiful  figure,  his  grace  of  movement,  his 
silver-toned  voice  ?  I  should  say  that  I  cannot. 
I  can  only  give  one  description — that  is,  as  I 
have  said,  that  he  was  a  handsome  man,  with  an 
open,  frank  manner  that  would  win  its  way  into 
the  heart  of  any  girl  far  less  susceptible  than  Miss 
Myra  Boosch — now  eighteen  years  of  age,  if  you 
please,  and  no  longer  "little  Myra." 

It  was  one  of  those  fatal  moments  in  a  girl's 
career,  that  moment  when  her  father  took  hold 
of  the  young  man's  arm  and,  leading  him  over 
to  his  daughter,  who  was  flushed  with  the  excite- 

17 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

ment  of  the  numerous  introductions  and  the 
voices  of  flattery,  presented  him. 

"  My  dear  Myra,  this  is  Mr.  Richard  Broakley, 
the  son  of  our  neighbors,  who  has  just  returned 
for  a  vacation  from  college.  Myra,  Mr.  Broakley 
— Mr.  Broakley,  my  daughter  Myra." 

She  gave  one  look  into  the  frank,  open  counten 
ance  of  Richard  Broakley,  and  the  "God  that 
disposes  while  man  proposes"  had  done  His  work. 

"Mr.  Broakley,"  she  said,  warmly,  extending 
her  hand,  "I  am  glad  to  meet  you — particularly 
on  this  evening,  which  means  so  much  to  me. 
I  am  glad  for  the  reason  that  you,  being  a  colle 
giate  man,  can  assist  me  in  my  researches  in — 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  scientific  matters  now, 
Miss  Boosch,"  said  Richard  Broakley;  "we  shall 
have  plenty  of  opportunity,  I  hope,  in  the  future, 
to  discuss  those  matters.  Let  us  only  remember 
that  this  day  commemorates  the  blossoming  into 
womanhood  of  the  most  lovely  person  it  has  ever 
been  my  fortune  to — " 

"Mr.  Broakley!"  ejaculated  Myra,  her  face 
aflush,  "you  certainly  have  acquired  in  college 
the  gift  of  conveying  orally  unmerited — " 

"My  dear  Miss  Boosch,  say  not  unmerited. 
To  me,  merit  wins,  and  were  it  not  for  merit  I 
would  not  for  a  moment  think  of  awarding  the 
merit  medal  to  one  who — " 

18 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Mr.  Broakley,"  interrupted  Myra,  blushing, 
"  I  think  you  are  a  flatterer,  not  a  good  critic." 

"Well,  so  be  it,"  laughingly  answered  Broakley. 

And  then  Myra  was  swallowed  up  in  a  labyrinth 
of  couples — young  and  old — who  had  compelled 
recognition. 

Now,  I  must  tick  off  a  few  words  about  Richard 
Broakley.  I  had  known  the  Broakley  family 
ever  since  I  was  installed  in  the  Boosch  homestead. 
The  senior  Broakleys  were  wont  to  drop  in  of  an 
evening  to  have  a  chat,  and  perchance  a  game  of 
that  innocent  amusement,  dominoes. 

Three  years  before  Myra  was  born  the  household 
of  the  Broakleys  had  been  blessed  by  the  arrival 
of  a  boy — Richard,  the  first  and  only  child  of  that 
worthy  pair. 

Richard  had  grown  up  to  be  a  handsome  young 
man,  with  an  aversion  to  farmwork.  He  was  of 
a  studious  disposition,  no  one  could  gainsay  that, 
and  in  early  boyhood  had  taken  to  book  reading 
and  study  as  few  young  boys  can  be  credited  with 
doing.  His  father  appreciated  that,  it  is  true, 
but  regretted  very  much  his  aversion  to  any  work 
connected  with  the  farm — not  that  he  was  ex 
pected  to  do  menial  work,  but  he  could  not  seem 
to  reconcile  himself  even  to  the  minor  details 
of  keeping  account  of  the  tons  of  hay  in  the  barn, 
or  the  bushels  of  grain  harvested,  or  the  number 

19 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

of  chickens  in  the  hennery,  or  in  fact,  anything 
having  to  do  with  the  products  of  the  farm. 

He  would  sit  for  hours  poring  over  a  book  on 
mineralogy,  and  would  wander  over  the  farm 
picking  up  a  stone  here  and  there  which  he  thought 
would  be  a  subject  of  mineralogical  analysis. 

In  the  little  country  school  he  proved  to  be  an 
apt  scholar,  and  it  was  not  long  before  his  father 
gave  up  the  idea  of  interesting  him  in  the  work 
he  himself  had  loved  and  performed  so  well,  and 
after  consulting  with  his  wife — he  consulted  with 
her  on  all  matters,  whether  relating  to  family 
or  financial  matters — he,  or  rather  they,  decided 
that  the  best  thing  that  could  be  done  would  be 
to  send  Richard  to  college  and  let  him  work  out 
his  path  in  life,  according  to  his  own  inclinations. 

And  so  it  was  that  Richard  had  gone  to  college, 
while  his  father  still  hoped  that  some  day  he  would 
come  home  with  the  purpose  of  taking  up  the  work 
that  had  made  his  father  a  prosperous  man. 

But  at  each  recurring  vacation  period,  upon  his 
return  home,  Richard  evinced  the  same  aversion 
to  all  things  connected  with  the  farm. 

"Mother,"  said  Mr.  Broakley  one  day  upon  the 
return  for  the  summer  of  Richard,  whom  he  had 
shown  over  the  farm  and  who  had  evidenced  no 
interest  whatever  in  the  progress  and  improve 
ments  that  his  father  had  tried  to  make  clear  to 

20 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

him,  "I  cannot  understand  Richard.  I  took  him 
all  over  the  place  and  explained  how  we  had 
improved  this  and  that,  how  we  were  advancing 
in  our  methods  of  tilling  and  garnering,  how  we 
were  adding  to  the  acres  that  are  cleared,  but  he 
seems  to  feel  no  interest  whatever  in  the  farm. 
How  do  you  account  for  that  ?" 

There  was  a  tone  of  sadness  in  his  voice  which 
his  wife  was  quick  to  detect.  She,  alone,  knew 
of  the  dreams  her  husband  had  had  of  the  heir 
who  was  to  carry  on  the  work  when  he  no  longer 
was  able  to  do  so.  She,  alone,  knew  how  her 
husband  had  tried  to  reconcile  himself  to  the 
thought  that  when  that  time  arrived  his  lifework 
would  have  to  be  entrusted  to  strangers,  but  she 
knew,  also,  that  it  was  grieving  him  deeply, 
although  he  had  never  given  her  any  visible 
evidence  of  that. 

"Samuel,"  said  his  wife,  "God  works  out  the 
destiny  of  us  all.  If  it  be  His  wish  that  our 
Richard  should  choose  a  path  in  life  different  from 
that  we  desire,  we  can  do  nothing  but  bow  to  His 
inscrutable  will.  You  know,  Samuel,  that  Richard 
is  old  enough  to  choose  for  himself  now,  and  that 
you  can  bend  the  twig,  but  you  cannot  bend  the 
tree." 

"Well  said,  my  sweetheart," — he  always  called 
her  sweetheart,  and  I  know  she  always  was  to  him 

21 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

what  she  had  been  in  her  girlhood,  his  sweetheart — 
"perhaps  it  is  just  as  well.  Maybe  some  day  he 
will  make  his  mark  in  the  scientific  world,  and 
then  we  would  feel  that  we  had  done  wrong  in 
trying  to  persuade  him  to  give  up  his  own  marking- 
out  of  his  pathway  in  life." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  on  the  day  that 
Richard  Broakley  had  been  introduced  to  Myra 
Boosch  he  had  no  established  purpose — no  direct 
aim,  I  might  say — as  to  his  future,  except  that  his 
avowed  hatred  for  farmwork  became  more  manifest. 

The  summer  days  were  spent  by  Richard 
in  wandering  over  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania, 
mostly  Pocono,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  daydreams 
of  discovering  the  presence  of  some  metal  that 
would  relieve  him  of  all  financial  worry  for  the 
future.  He  had  taken  sufficient  interest  in  min 
eralogy  to  become  proficient  as  a  prospector,  and 
no  argument  could  dissuade  him  from  his  notion 
that  from  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania  would 
be  taken  silver — nay,  even  gold. 

He  had  called  upon  Dr.  Boosch  frequently, 
and  with  each  call  there  was  a  deeper  desire  to 
be  in  the  presence  of  Myra.  And  I  know,  having 
seen  the  roses  in  her  cheeks  and  the  light  in  her 
eyes  when  she  saw  him,  through  the  glass  door 
leading  to  the  porch,  stepping  up  the  gravel  walk, 
that  she,  too,  took  pleasure  in  his  presence. 

22 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

How  warmly  she  greeted  him  when  she  opened 
the  door,  and  in  response  to  his  query,  "Is  your 
father  in  ?" — said  in  a  tone  that  plainly  indicated 
to  me  that  he  wished  for  a  negative  reply — she 
would  say: 

"No,  Mr.  Broakley,  papa  has  just  gone  out 
for  a  drive  with  mamma.  Won't  you  step  in  for 
a  minute  ?  I  have  a  new  butterfly  which  I  wish 
you  would  look  at  and  give  me  some  information 
about.  I  am  getting  to  be  quite  an  entomologist, 
and  with  your  help,  Mr.  Broakley,  I  hope  to  be 
come  quite  famous  for  my  collection  of  butterflies 
and  bugs." 

And  then  they  would  wander  off  about  the  fields 
and  gather  flowers  and  chase  butterflies  like 
children.  How  well  I  recall  her  happy,  joyous 
face,  set  cunningly  in  the  frame  of  the  sunbonnet 
thrown  carelessly  over — not  on — her  head,  hanging 
on  her  shoulders  by  the  wide  ribbon  tied  under 
her  dimpled  chin! 

Myra,  Myra,  in  your  innocence  you  knew  no 
care  then,  did  you  ?  You  only  knew  that  the  man 
you  were  learning  to  love  was  the  man  who  stepped 
so  happily  by  your  side  and  gazed  upon  the  picture 
you  made,  framed  by  your  sunbonnet,  with 
eyes  that  devotedly  spoke  of  the  love  that  was 
yours  in  return.  You  thought,  then,  didn't  you, 
Myra,  that  only  one  true  heart  beat  for  you  ? 

23 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

You  did  not  know  that  another  heart  had  been 
won  by  you,  and  that  Jim  Carbon,  man  of  all 
work,  had  learned  to  worship  the  very  ground  you 
trod,  and  that,  though  he  never  approached  you 
except  in  a  manner  becoming  his  position  in  the 
old  homestead,  he  wondered  why  fate  had  destined 
that  he  should  not  have  such  happiness  as  was 
the  lot  of  Richard  Broakley. 

How  often  he  watched  you,  Myra,  as  you  stepped 
lightly  across  the  lawn,  and  said  to  himself: 
"Jim  Carbon,  if  you  could  only  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  have  been  loved  by  such  an 
angel,  what  a  world  of  happiness  this  would 
be  to  you."  You  little  knew  then,  Myra,  as  you 
gave  me  a  look,  passing  through  the  hallway, 
as  if  reproaching  me  for  having  made  the  moments 
pass  too  swiftly  when  Richard  called,  that  there 
was  a  love  growing  in  the  heart  of  one  who  never 
spoke  of  it  to  human  being! 

Ah,  me!  why  could  not  the  Fates  work  out 
matters  so  that  faithful,  loving  hearts  such  as 
Jim  Carbon's  should  enjoy  the  blessings  of  a 
love  returned  by  one  so  good  and  pretty  as  Myra 
Boosch  ? 

But  why  should  a  family  clock  attempt  to 
unravel  the  mysteries  of  life,  when  the  greatest 
philosophers  have  failed  to  do  so  ? 


TICK  THE  FOURTH 

Two  years  have  passed  since  that  memorable 
birthday  party.  Two  years!  It  seems  to  me 
but  yesterday,  though  I  have  ticked  off  many 
minutes,  hours,  and  days  since  then.  Two 
years!  What  an  eternity  that  must  be  to  a  prisoner 
in  his  cell!  What  an  eternity  to  the  incurable 
waiting  for  time  to  end  the  sufferings  that  science 
has  failed  to  alleviate!  But  to  lovers,  what  are 
two  years  ? 

Last  summer,  when  Richard  Broakley  re 
turned  for  his  second  vacation,  with  the  hope 
that  he  would  be  graduated  the  following  year, 
what  a  roundelay  of  pleasure  trips,  of  lovemaking, 
of  happy  moments  spent  in  the  shadows  of  what 
are  now  known  as  Marshall's  Falls,  thundering 
in  a  modest  way,  as  compared  with  Niagara, 
a  song  of  the  forces  of  nature  as  shown  in  the 
wearing  away  of  rocks  by  the  never-ending,  never- 
ceasing  rush  of  water  over  the  precipice.  How 
they  sat  beneath  those  falls,  gazing  for  hours 
at  what  appeared  to  them  the  grandeur,  the 
splendor,  as  the  sun  formed  a  rainbow  from  the 
rising  spray. 

25 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

You  of  modern  days,  who  have  traveled  to 
Niagara  in  swift-moving  cars,  equipped  with 
their  wonderful  modes  of  comfort,  can  little 
appreciate  what  grandeur  there  was  to  the  lovers 
in  Marshall's  Falls,  a  pigmy  compared  with  the 
"  thunderer  of  waters." 

And  then  the  husking  bees,  the  strawberry 
festivals  on  the  vacant  lot  opposite  the  modest 
church,  with  its  bevy  of  ruddy-cheeked  girls 
importuning  the  young  men  to  buy  in  order  that 
they  might  hold  the  record  for  the  largest  sales; 
the  straw-rides,  with  the  sinking  in  of  the  straw, 
and  the  shrieks  and  shouts  as  they  bumped  over 
a  "thank-you-ma'am";  the  discordant  singing  that 
made  the  welkin  ring  and  woke  up  the  summer 
boarder  who  had  been  lured  there  by  the  seductive 
promises  of  "absolute  quiet." 

Care-free,  indeed,  were  they — Myra  and  Richard. 
And  when  the  time  came  for  his  return  to  college, 
how  happy  they  seemed  as  he  came  to  bid  farewell 
for  the  short,  "teeny"  while,  as  she  termed  it, 
that  he  would  be  gone.  How  long  and  earnestly 
they  lingered  and  talked  while  I  ticked  mutely 
on.  What  plans  they  laid  for  the  next  year, 
when  he  should  come  home  for  good!  Without 
rhyme  or  reason  they  mapped  out  their  future 
as  only  lovers  can  do,  who  have  no  idea  of  the 
practicabilities  of  life. 

26 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

And  then  the  return,  Richard  having  been 
graduated  with  high  honors;  the  feting  in  his 
honor  by  his  parents;  the  constant  whirligig  of 
receptions  by  the  neighbors,  and  then,  late  in 
the  fall,  the  announcement  of  the  death  of  his 
maiden  aunt,  Cynthia  Broakley,  who  had  acquired 
for  some  reason  known  only  to  herself  an  aversion 
to  early  marriages.  She  bequeathed  to  her 
nephew  a  substantial  sum  of  money — sufficient 
to  make  him  free  from  monetary  cares  for  years 
to  come,  provided: — 

"It  is  expressly  stipulated  that  my  nephew, 
in  order  to  become  a  beneficiary  under  my  will, 
shall  not  marry  before  the  age  of  twenty-five." 

"We  can  wait  two  years  longer,  can't  we, 
Myra,  dear  ?"  said  Richard,  when  he  heard  the 
stipulation  of  the  will. 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Myra,  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  plainly  indicated  to  me — but  not  to 
him — that  she  wished  that  the  aunt  had  not  died, 
but  had  left  them  to  their  own  resources  to  struggle 
along  in  the  world,  with  the  confidence  that  her 
Richard  would  not  see  her  want  for  anything. 
"But  two  years  seem  a  long  while,  now  that  we 
are  engaged,  don't  they,  Richard  ?" 

"Not  if  they  pass  as  quickly  as  have  the  last 
two  years,  Myra,"  he  answered,  placing  an  arm 
around  her  waist  and  giving  her  an  embrace 

27 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

that  restored,  in  a  measure,  her  evident  present 
lack  of  faith  in  the  rapidity  of  movement  of  time. 

And  then  they  sat  for  hours  talking  of  the 
cottage  they  would  build — "nest"  most  lovers 
call  it — but  Richard  was  far  too  practical  a  man 
to  think  that  a  nest  would  do  for  his  Myra. 
He  knew  full  well  that  her  parents  had  gratified 
her  every  wish,  and  had  it  not  been  for  this  un 
expected  legacy  from  his  aunt  he  would  surely 
not  have  thought  of  marriage  until  he  had  seen 
his  way  clear  to  providing  a  comfortable  home 
for  her,  free  from  most  of  the  cares  of  house 
wifery. 

And,  in  the  meantime,  Jim  Carbon  had  gone 
about  his  work,  endearing  himself  alike  to  the 
family  of  his  employer  and  to  the  neighbors. 
Wherever  there  was  death  or  misfortune  in  the 
homes  of  the  neighbors,  there  was  to  be  found 
Jim  Carbon,  after  the  work  of  the  day  had  been 
finished,  administering  to  their  wants,  driving 
long  distances  in  order  to  get  the  doctor  or  to  stay 
over  night  helping  to  do  that  part  of  the  work 
about  the  farm  which  was  neglected  owing  to  the 
illness  of  the  male  portion  of  the  afflicted  family. 
Ever  ready  to  extend  a  helping  hand  to  those  in 
pecuniary  need,  people  often  wondered  where 
he  got  the  money  from,  little  thinking  that  he  was 
drawing  from  the  bank  where  the  money  accruing 

28 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

from  the  sale  of  his  father's  farm  had  been  de 
posited,  and  that  he  gave  no  thought  to  his  own 
future,  hoping  and  praying  that  those  afflicted 
might  derive  benefit  from  what  his  parents  had 
worked  for  and  saved. 

As  he  said  to  Mrs.  Brownson,  the  widow 
suddenly  desolated,  when  she  reproached  him  for 
a  deed  that  ever  lived  in  her  memory,  "My  good 
woman,  what  and  whom  have  I  to  care  for  in 
this  world  but  myself?  Am  I  not  strong  enough 
to  feel  free  from  care  as  to  the  future  ?  Please 
do  not  mention  the  subject  to  me  again,  Mrs. 
Brownson.  Mr.  Brownson  would  have  done  as 
much  for  me,  I  am  sure,  if  the  conditions  had 
been  reversed." 

And  at  that  the  widow  had  burst  into  tears, 
and  placed  both  her  hands  upon  Jim's  shoulders 
and  had  cried  out  in  the  agony  of  her  despair: 

"God  knows,  Jim  Carbon,  that  my  husband 
had  as  big  a  heart  as  yours.  But  I  can't  forget 
the  man  who  has  sacrificed  so  much  for  me  and 
my  family.  May  God  bless  every  footstep  in 
your  life's  journey!  May  the  prayers  of  a  widow 
and  her  children  follow  you  no  matter  where  you 
go,  and  be  sure,  Jim  Carbon,  that  he  who  has 
just  left  us  will  raise  his  voice  in  heaven  for  you, 
for  surely  He  who  took  him  away  will  listen  to 
his  appeal  for  one  who  has  deprived  himself — " 

29 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Brownson,"  interrupted 
Jim  Carbon,  his  face  crimsoned  by  the  showers 
of  gratitude,  "please  remember  that  our  duty 
in  life  should  be  to  help  one  another  in  times 
of  distress  and  sorrow,  and  that  what  I  have  done 
is  nothing  more  than  the  Father  of  us  all  would 
have  me  do.  To-morrow  a  friend  of  mine  will 
come  and  attend  to  your  work  about  the  place 
until  you  can  hire  some  one  to  stay  permanently." 

Little  did  the  widow  suspect  that  the  "friend" 
was  a  man  hired  and  paid  by  Jim  Carbon;  and 
when  he  stayed,  and  stayed,  notwithstanding  the 
frequent  admonitions  that  it  was  "too  much  to 
expect  of  any  friend  of  Mr.  Carbon's  to  give  up 
his  own  time,"  she  began  to  suspect  that  some 
thing  in  Jim  Carbon's  story  was  wrong. 

"Mr.  Decker,"  she  said  to  Carbon's  friend, 
after  he  had  been  doing  duty  for  about  four 
months  on  the  farm,  "  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question, 
and  I  hope  you  will  answer  it  as  honestly  as  I 
ask  it.  Are  you  doing  the  work  for  nothing  or 
are  you  getting  paid  from  Mr.  Carbon  ?" 

"Mu-um,"  drawled  Mr.  Decker — known  among 
the  neighbors  as  "Hank" — "it  mought  be,  and 
agin  it  moughtn't  be.  I  be  jest  workin'  here, 
mum,  as  I  be  obleeged  fer  ter  work  fer  any  one, 
fer  ter  make  a  livin',  mum.  And  I  has  my  orders, 
mum,  ter  continer  until  I  be  stopped." 

30 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"And  who  gave  you  those  orders,  Mr.  Decker  ?" 
Mrs.  Brownson  inquired,  feeling  that  she  was 
unraveling  the  mystery  of  his  willingness  to  stay 
and  continue  the  farmwork. 

"That  be  not  fer  me  ter  say,  mum;  thet  be  not 
fer  me  ter  say." 

"Now  look  here,  Mr.  Decker,  you  cannot  hide 
from  me  that  you  are  being  paid  by  James  Car 
bon.  You  cannot  hide  longer  from  me  that  that 
man  has  made  sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  my  family — 
no  more  to  him"  than  the  Arab  on  the  desert. 
And  I  want  you  to  know,  Mr.  Decker,  that  you 
are  welcome  to  stay  here  as  long  as  you  want, 
but  that  not  another  penny  shall  be  paid  you  by 
Mr.  Carbon.  Our  affairs  are  in  pretty  good  shape, 
now,  Mr.  Decker,  and  I  can  manage  to  pay  you. 
Mr.  Carbon  shall  not — will  not — be  allowed  to 
spend  another  cent  on  us — God  bless  him!" 

The  earnestness  with  which  the  blessing  was 
delivered  left  no  doubt  on  the  mind  of  Mr.  Decker. 
He  knew  that  Mrs.  Brownson's  ultimatum  was 
final.  He  had  formed  a  liking  for  the  widow, 
and  he  had  hopes  that  in  the  future  there  might 
be  a  time  when  her  grief  would  be  assuaged  and 
that  he  might  sit  in  the  vacant  chair. 

"So  be  it,  Mrs.  Brownson;  so  be  it.  I  hev  ter 
confess  thet  it  be  Mr.  Carbon's  doin's.  But, 
seem*  as  how  I  be  comfertable  here,  and  thet 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

I  be  used  ter  the  work  and  yer  ways  of  wantin' 
things  done,  I  reckin  I  hed  better  hang  on  a  while 
longer.  And,  Mrs.  Brownson,  seein'  as  yer  be  a 
widder  an'  thet  yer  hain't  got  too  much  of  ther 
world's  goods,  an'  I  bein'  alone  and  no  one  ter 
care  fer,  I  think  I  kin  scrape  along  on  quite  a  bit 
less  than  I  were  a-gettin'." 

'f  Thank  you  kindly,  Mr.  Decker.  I  will 
accept  your  offer.  In  a  year  or  so  we  will  be  able 
to  pay  more,  and  then  I  will  not  forget  your 
kindness." 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  gratitude. 
She  did  not  suspect  the  motive  that  prompted 
this  generous  offer  on  the  part  of  the  wily  Mr. 
Decker — a  widower  for  seven  years. 


TICK  THE  FIFTH 

MATTERS  had  been  running  along  so  smoothly 
and  happily  these  many  years  in  the  Boosch  and 
Broakley  homesteads  that  no  one  was  prepared 
for  the  events  that  crowded  themselves  so  rapidly 
that  I  could  scarcely  keep  time  with  them. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  June,  one  of  those  listless, 
warm  June  days  when  nature  seems  to  be  drowsy 
and  the  very  creatures  of  the  air  seem  to  be  im 
bued,  also,  with  that  listless  spirit. 

Myra  had  been  sitting  on  the  porch  for  about 
an  hour,  looking  wistfully  toward  the  Milford 
Road,  expecting  to  see  each  moment  the  figure 
of  Richard  Broakley  approaching.  Every  now 
and  then  she  would  come  into  the  hallway  and 
look  appealingly  at  me,  as  if  she  half  expected 
that  I  would  set  at  rest  her  anxiety.  Just  as  my 
hands  pointed  to  the  hour  of  three  she  heard  the 
clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  hard,  dusty  road. 

In  a  few  minutes  Richard  appeared,  riding 
as  gracefully  as  a  trained  equestrian.  Swinging 
up  to  the  gate,  he  sprang  lightly  from  his  horse, 
admonishing  him  to  behave  himself  and  not 
wander  away,  and  coming  up  the  path  leading 

33 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  the  porch  put  his  hands  upon  Myra's  cheeks 
and  imprinted  a  few — shall  I  tell  how  many  ? — 
kisses  upon  her  ready,  pouting  lips. 

"  Were  you  afraid  I  wasn't  coming,  little  one  ?" 
he  asked,  kissing  away  the  last  vestige  of  im 
patience  shown  by  her. 

"Yes,  I  was  afraid  something  had  occurred 
to  keep  you  from  me  this  afternoon,  Richard," 
she  answered.  "You  know,  dear,  how  I  am 
worried  about  you,  and  feel  alarmed  when  you 
do  not  come  on  time  lest  something  has  happened 
to  you.  Oh,  Richard,"  and  here  her  voice  was 
tinged  with  a  sadness  that  was  a  revelation  to  me, 
who  had  never  heard  anything  but  joyousness 
come  from  those  charming  lips  of  hers,  "how 
I  wish  that  the  time  was  up  and  that  we  could  be 
married.  I  sometimes  feel  that  you  ought  not 
to  wait,  and  that  you  ought  to  relinquish  your 
inheritance  rather  than  that — 

Here  she  broke  down.  There  was  evidently 
something  she  wished  to  say,  but  which  could 
not  be  uttered  owing  to  the  sobs  that  were  welling 
up  in  her  throat. 

"There,  there,  little  one,"  said  Richard,  "your 
fears  are  groundless.  Did  you  ever  see  a  man 
in  better  health  than  I  am  ?" 

And  here  he  straightened  himself  to  his  full 
height,  with  chest  expanded,  and  who  could 

34 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

but  say  that  he  was  a  model  of  healthy,  robust 
manhood  ? 

"Myra,"  he  continued,  "I,  too,  feel  at  times 
that  I  ought  to  give  up  my  aunt's  inheritance  and 
set  at  rest  your  qualms.  But  the  time  is  so  short 
now,  you  know,  dear,  that  it  would  be  foolish 
for  me  to  give  it  up  and  deprive  you  of  some 
of  the  comforts  it  will  bring  you  when  we  are 
married." 

Here  Myra,  drying  the  tears  that  would  persist 
in  coming  to  the  surface,  notwithstanding  her 
efforts  to  keep  them  back,  looked  up  into  his 
face,  the  very  embodiment  of  health  tingeing  his 
cheeks  with  nature's  color,  and  said: 

"Yes,  Richard,  it  is  a  short  time,  that  is  true. 
But  to  me  it  will  seem  years.  God  will,  I  hope, 
hear  my  prayer  that  all  will  be  well  in  the  end." 

"Come,  Myra,  let  us  stay  here  a  while,  until 
the  sun  is  down  a  bit  and  it  is  cooler.  Then  we 
will  take  a  walk  together,  arm  in  arm,  as  I  hope 
we  may  journey  together  for  many,  many  years 
to  come — eh,  sweetheart  ?  I  will  bring  a  chair 
out  here,  where  the  breeze  is  blowing,  and  we  will 
enjoy  the  scene  that  is  spread  out  before,  us. 
Did  you  ever  see  one  more  lovely  and  beautiful  ? 
See  how  the  mountain,  with  its  haze  like  a  bridal 
veil,  is  trying  to  hide  from  us  in  order  that  it  might 
rob  us  of  some  of  the  beauty  of  the  scene!" 

35 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,  Richard,"  said  Myra,  in  a  lighter  voice, 
for  his  presence  and  words  seemed  to  reassure 
her.  "It  is  indeed  grand  out  here  to-day." 

Then  he  brought  out  a  willow  rocker  for  her 
and  placed  it  as  close  to  his  chair  as  was  possible 
without  grating  them  together.  He  leaned  back, 
his  chair  tilted  against  the  porch  upright,  while 
she  rocked  back  and  forth  contentedly. 

Myra,  Myra!  Had  you  known  then!  But, 
thank  heaven,  he  was  spared  a  few  hours  more 
to  lighten  your  life  and  make  you  enjoy  the  walk 
in  the  shadows  of  the  setting  sun.  For,  when  the 
shadows  began  to  grow  on  the  side  of  the  spacious 
barn  he  had  urged  her  to  get  her  sunbonnet, 
and  together,  arm  in  arm,  as  he  had  expressed 
the  wish  that  they  would  do  through  life's  journey, 
they  had  wandered  down  the  road. 

How  buoyantly  they  stepped  along,  both  in  the 
flush  of  youth  and  health.  How  lovely  nature 
appeared  to  those  two  pairs  of  eyes  that  drank 
in  the  beauty  of  the  pastoral  scene,  with  the 
cool  winds  of  the  evening  fanning  the  roses  on 
their  cheeks.  How  many  subjects  they  talked 
about,  as  they  walked  on  unmindful  of  the  time, 
until  Richard  pulled  out  his  watch  and  said: 

"Why,  little  one,  it  is  half  past  six.  We  must 
go  back,  for  you  know  your  mother  doesn't  like 
to  wait  supper,  even  for  us." 

36 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

And  they  began  to  retrace  their  steps,  only 
rinding  out,  then,  how  far  they  had  walked, 
wholly  unconscious  of  time  or  distance.  It  was 
after  half-past  seven  when  they  entered  the  dining- 
room,  at  the  table  in  which  were  already  seated 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boosch  and  Myra's  brother. 

"Well,  children,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  don't 
keep  good  meal  hours — we  have  been  waiting 
fully  half  an  hour.  But  I  suppose  we'll  have  to 
make  allowances,  eh  ?"  and  he  smiled  knowingly 
at  his  daughter. 

"Yes,  father,  I  guess  you  will  have  to  over 
look  our  dilatoriness  to-day,  for  the  atmosphere 
was  so  cool  and  the  roads  so  good  that  we  scarcely 
knew  how  far  we  had  walked.  We  will  do  better 
the  next  time." 

Ah,  yes!  The  next  time!  How  we  speak  of 
the  uncertain  future,  little  realizing  that  the 
morrow  may  never  become  to  us  a  yesterday. 
How  little  we  know  what  is  in  store  for  us  on  the 
morrow — yea,  perhaps  on  the  very  day!  But 
perhaps  it  is  better  that  we  should  not  know. 

The  table  talk  resolved  itself  into  desultory 
conversation  about  topics  relating  to  the  neigh 
bors,  the  weather,  the  crops  and  such  subjects 
connected  with  the  farm  as  little  interested, 
apparently,  Richard  Broakley. 

And     then    came    the     parting    for    the  night. 

37 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Richard  went  to  the  stable  and  brought  his 
impatient,  restless  horse  out  in  front  of  the  gate, 
where  Myra  was  leaning,  a  look  of  grave  care  on 
her  face.  She  was  fearful  to-night,  she  knew 
not  why — there  was  something  seemed  to  whisper 
to  her  of  misfortune. 

Her  heart  sank  as  he  jumped  lithely  on  his 
horse's  back,  leaned  over  again  to  kiss  her  good 
bye,  and  then,  wondering  what  time  it  was  and 
not  wishing  to  take  off  his  gloves,  sprang  from  his 
horse  and  ran  into  the  hallway  for  a  look  at  my 
face. 

God!  Little  did  I  think  that  that  would  be 
the  last  time  that  those  handsome  brown  eyes 
would  look  at  me!  Richard  Broakley,  Richard 
Broakley,  how  I  wish  that  lightning,  or  fire,  or 
earthquake,  or  destruction  of  any  kind,  had 
overtaken  me  and  spared  me  from  witnessing  the 
heartbreaks,  the  griefs,  the  dying  out  of  all  happi 
ness  in  that  happy  homestead!  Richard  Broakley, 
what  would  I  not  give  to  have  you  again  look 
at  me,  with  your  eyes  sparkling,  in  a  reproachful 
sort  of  way,  as  you  did  when  you  last  beamed 
on  me,  as  if  you  blamed  me  for  having  kept  time 
too  fast. 

"Why,  it  is  after  nine,  Myra,"  he  called  to 
her  as  he  walked  down  the  gravel  path.  "I 
should  have  left  here  at  half-past  eight  at  the 

38 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

latest,  for  you  know  there  is  to  be  a  meeting  of  the 
Road  Committee  at  nine.  However,  sweetheart, 
I'll  make  Jerry  do  his  best  and  recover  some  of  the 
lost  time.  Good-night,  my  Myra !" 

He  leaped  upon  his  horse,  after  kissing  her 
again  and  again,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
gave  the  animal  a  slight  tap  with  the  butt  end 
of  his  riding  crop,  and  plunged  into  the  darkness 
of  the  night. 

Myra  stood  for  a  moment,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  retreating  hoofbeats,  and  then, 
with  a  long,  deep  sigh,  walked  slowly  toward 
the  house. 

There  was  no  peace  in  her  mind.  She  felt 
intuitively  that  some  misfortune  was  about  to 
happen.  As  she  entered  her  room  she  sank 
upon  her  knees  and  prayed  that  the  Almighty 
might  be  with  her  Richard  and  protect  him  from 
harm. 

For  hours  she  tossed  restlessly  upon  her  pillow 
but  finally  fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep,  to  awaken 
to  find  that  the  light  of  her  life  was  never  more 
to  bid  her  good-night  again. 


39 


TICK  THE  SIXTH 

AT  THE  time  that  Myra  and  Richard  were 
bidding  each  other  good-night,  Mary  Lash  came 
into  the  kitchen  where,  by  the  open  window,  sat 
Jim  Carbon,  half  dozing,  half  dreaming.  What 
his  dreams  were  no  one  will  ever  know,  but  I, 
the  family  clock,  can  surmise  that  they  were  of  one 
in  the  household  where  he  dwelt.  Mary  tapped 
him  gently  on  the  shoulder  and  abruptly  said: 

"Jim  Carbon,  you  know  that  Sam  Winkle  was 
to  take  the  party  from  the  corner  down  to  the 
festival  in  his  hay-rig.  Well,  he's  laid  up  with 
rheumatism,  and  says  that  he  won't  trust  his 
horses  with  any  one  but  you.  So  the  folks  are 
all  down  at  the  corner,  and  they  sent  me  up  here 
to  ask  you  if  you  wouldn't  do  the  driving  for  them. 
You  know  what  Winkle's  horses  are,  and  no 
wonder  that  he  won't  trust  every  one  with  them. 
Now,  you  will,  won't  you,  Mr.  Carbon  ?  The  girls 
seemed  to  think  that  I  was  the  only  one  could 
make  you  do  it,  and  I  want  to  show  them  that  I 
have  a  little  influence  over  you." 

Could  Jim  have  misconstrued  the  emphasis 
in  which  this  was  said  ?  Was  there  a  spirit  of 

40 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

reproach  in  "a  little  influence"?  Could  it  be 
possible  that  Mary  Lash  thought  something  of 
him  and  was  letting  him  know  by  this  slight  in 
nuendo  that  she  was  aware  of  the  "little  influence" 
she  had  over  him  ?  Jim  Carbon  was  not  a  man 
of  vanity — he  was  too  much  of  a  man  to  imagine 
that  any  girl  should  fall  in  love  with  him — yet 
why  had  she  chided  him  for  the  "little  influence" 
she  had  over  him  ? 

Jumping  out  of  his  chair,  he  looked  up  into 
her  rugged,  inquiring  face,  and  the  memory  of 
her  welcome  on  the  day  when  he  first  appeared 
at  the  Boosch  homestead  ever  fresh  in  his  mind, 
took  up  his  hat,  extended  his  hand  to  her,  and 
said: 

"Mary,  I  shall  go  at  once  and  bring  the  team 
and  rig  down,  and  when  I  drive  up  to  the  corner 
you  can  say  to  all,  'See,  Mary  Lash  can  bid  any 
man  obey  her  wishes.' ' 

Mary  walked  slowly  down  to  the  corner  from 
the  Boosch  homestead — it  was  almost  a  mile 
as  the  crow  flies,  only  a  short  step  lovers  said, 
and  the  farm  boys  sometimes  declared  it  must 
be  three,  when  they  returned  from  a  day's  plowing. 
In  answer  to  the  anxious  interrogations  of  the 
assembled  boys  and  girls  she  answered: 

"Jim  Carbon  will  be  here  with  the  team  as 
fast  as  he  can  get  them  ready  and  drive  here." 

41 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

What  a  shout  there  was.  And  how  many 
quizzically  asked  Mary  what  "influence"  she  had 
over  Jim  Carbon  to  make  him  respond  so  quickly 
to  her  appeal.  Indeed,  one  young  lady — how 
pretty  she  looked,  with  a  white  flimsy  shawl 
thrown  over  her  head,  wound  around  her  ruddy 
face,  and  then  around  her  neck,  and  then  tucked 
under  her  chin — asked  Mary  (I  wonder  if  there 
wasn't  a  mite  of  jealousy  ?)  when  she  expected 
to  change  her  name  from  one  syllable  to  two 
syllables. 

But  here  he  comes!  What  a  spanking  team 
was  that  of  Winkle's.  No  wonder  that  Winkle 
was  chary  of  letting  any  one  but  Carbon  drive 
them.  Standing  bolt  upright,  with  those  big, 
knobby  hands  of  his  holding  the  reins  like  a 
Roman  charioteer,  Jim  swung  up  to  the  corner 
as  if  his  very  life  depended  upon  his  getting  there 
at  a  specified  moment. 

How  the  girls  waved  their  handkerchiefs, 
how  the  boys  cheered  and  cried  out,  "Good  boy, 
Jim  Carbon!" 

And  then  the  crowding  into  the  rig,  packed 
with  straw,  and  cushions,  and  blankets,  and  what 
not!  Here  were  Mary  and  Kate,  and  Jane,  and 
Melinda — each  one  fearful  lest  in  the  confusion 
she  should  be  separated  from  her  Will  or  her 
Henry,  or  her  John,  or  her  Edward — screaming 

42 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  laughing  as  they  were  "boosted"  up  at  the 
end  of  the  poles  protruding  from  the  "stern" 
of  the  wagon.  And  what  a  time  before  they  were 
all  settled,  with  Jane  complaining  that  John  was 
taking  up  too  much  room,  and  Edward  importun 
ing  Melinda  to  move  up  closer.  He  did  not  think 
she  was  taking  up  too  much  room,  oh,  no!  To 
him  the  more  room  she  occupied  the  closer  she 
would  be  to  him,  bless  her  heart. 

Finally,  with  one  accord  they  sang  out: 

"All  right  here,  all  right  everywhere,  Jim 
Carbon." 

And  away  they  went.  How  those  horses 
strained  every  muscle  to  pull  that  merry  crowd 
up  the  hills,  as  if  they,  too,  took  pleasure  in  the 
proceeding.  And  how  Jim  Carbon,  with  a  chuckle 
to  himself,  when  some  of  the  girls  would  persist 
in  getting  up  and  endeavoring  to  change  seats, 
would  pull  the  horses  up  short,  with  the  result 
that  those  standing  up  were  hurled  into  the  laps 
of  the  young  men,  who,  in  turn,  would  urge  Jim 
to  repeat  the  performance  when  they  got  up, 
in  order  that  they  might  reverse  matters  and  be 
unceremoniously  thrown  into  the  laps  of  the  girls. 

And  when  they  drove  over  the  bridge  and  into 
the  lot  where  were  the  rigs  of  all  kinds  and  de 
scriptions — from  the  one-seated  buckboard  to  the 
more  pretentious  six-seated  "four- wheeler  "--Jim 

43 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Carbon  took  good  care  to  drive  where  the  branches 
of  the  trees  were  hanging  low,  and  again  there 
was  such  a  spilling  and  screaming  and  shouting 
and  laughter  as  only  can  emanate  from  the  healthy 
and  happy. 

What  a  short  time  it  took  to  empty  the  hay  rig! 
Never  was  a  load  of  hay  tossed  off  so  quickly, 
I  can  tell  you.  And  off  to  the  candy  stand,  the 
strawberry  stand,  the  cake  stand,  the  lemonade 
stand,  and  the — but  why  go  on  ?  You  know  all 
the  stands  at  a  festival  that  are  there  to  lure 
the  nickels  and  dimes  from  your  pockets. 

Did  you  ever,  dear  reader,  attend  an  ice-cream 
festival  and,  having  frosted  your  insides  with 
constant  applications  of  ice  cream,  meet  Kate 
So-and-so,  whom  you  have  not  seen  for  a  year, 
and  who  gently  insinuates  that  she  was  "just 
going  over  to  get  a  plate  of  cream"  ?  And  did 
you  not,  knowing  you  were  making  a  sacrifice 
on  the  altar  of  truth,  respond:  "I  was  just  going 
over  to  get  one  myself,  Miss  Kate.  I  am  so  glad 
we  met  just  at  this  time"  ? 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  withal,  the  festival  ground, 
buried  there  in  the  woods,  with  the  darkness 
of  the  night  enlivened  by  the  flare  of  the  oil  lamps, 
the  flickering  of  which  made  dancing  spectres 
of  the  surrounding  trees  and  shrubbery. 

Then  the  return,  with  the  horses  dashing  along, 

44 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

eager  to  reach  the  stable  and  rest  for  the  night. 
And  as  each  farm-house  was  passed  some  one 
would  drop  off,  with  a  cheery  "Good-night"  and 
"Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Jim  Carbon.  We 
have  had  a  jolly  time,  thanks  to  you." 

Finally,  passing  the  Boosch  homestead,  Mary 
was  assisted  out  by  Jim,  who  then  drove  the  team 
to  Winkle's  barn,  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
away.  He  unhooked  the  horses,  saw  that  they 
had  an  ample  meal,  and,  whistling  gaily  to  him 
self  with  evident  satisfaction,  took  up  a  lantern, 
"cut"  across  the  fields,  and  came  out  into  the  main 
road,  where  he  was  rather  astonished  to  see  in 
front  of  him  something  white  moving  back  and 
forth.  Holding  up  his  lantern  and  peering  ahead, 
he  saw  that  a  horse  was  grazing  by  the  roadside — 
an  unusual  thing  at  that  time  of  night  and  place. 

Intuitively  he  knew  that  something  was  wrong. 
He  went  up  close  to  the  horse,  held  the  lantern 
up  to  its  face,  and  muttered: 

"Richard  Broakley's  horse!  What's  up,  I 
wonder  ?" 

Then  a  groan  came  to  his  ears  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  and  with  eyes  that  tried  to  penetrate 
the  darkness  beyond  the  lantern's  gleam,  Jim 
Carbon,  a  man  of  nerve,  sought  to  trace  whence 
came  the  groan. 

Suddenly  he  stumbled — over  a  log,  he  thought — 

45 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

but  holding  the  lantern  down  to  the  ground, 
beheld  the  form  of  Richard  Broakley,  a  pool  of 
blood  about  his  head,  which  was  resting  on  a 
stone. 

Holding  the  lantern  close  to  the  face  of  Richard 
Broakley,  Carbon  could  see  at  a  glance  that  the 
death  stare  was  in  his  eyes. 

Leaning  over  he  almost  screamed: 

"  Great  heavens,  Mr.  Broakley,  what  has 
happened  ?" 

Slowly,  and  with  an  awful  effort,  Richard, 
putting  up  his  arms  as  if  he  would  bring  Jim's 
face  closer  to  him,  said : 

"Jim,  I  fell — off — my  horse.  I  think — I  am 
dying.  I  have — been  here  I — don't  know  how 
long.  Hurry,  for — God's  sake — and  get  Myra — 
and  a  minister — so  that  her — mine— our — 

Here  his  voice  became  so  inaudible  that  Jim 
Carbon  hardly  knew  whether  he  had  caught  the 
word  right.  Putting  his  ear  close  to  Richard 
Broakley's  lips,  he  cried  out: 

"  In  heaven's  name,  Mr.  Broakley,  with  all 
the  strength  you  have  left,  repeat  to  me,  so  that 
I  may  not  misunderstand  it,  that  word  you  just 
said." 

And,  with  all  the  strength  that  he  had  left, 
Richard  Broakley  uttered  one — and  his  last — word: 

"Child!" 

46 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Jim  Carbon  raised  his  form  to  the  full  height 
of  his  scrawny  figure,  and  with  his  arms  uplifted, 
as  if  in  mute  appeal  to  the  crescent  moon  now 
looking  down  upon  him  through  a  rift  in  the 
heavy,  low-hanging  clouds,  ejaculated,  from  the 
very  depths  of  his  honest,  God-fearing  soul, 
two  words : 

"My  God  I" 


47 


TICK  THE  SEVENTH 

FOR  a  full  minute  Jim  Carbon  stood  with  his 
arms  uplifted.  Then,  recovering  himself,  they 
dropped  limply  to  his  side.  What  thoughts 
seethed  through  his  brain  in  that  one  brief  moment 
no  living  soul  can  ever  tell.  Whether  of  sorrow, 
or  of  anger,  whether  he  felt  a  hatred  toward  the 
man  now  prone  at  his  feet,  dying — perhaps  dead — 
or  whether  he  felt  a  compassion  for  him  only  he, 
himself,  can  say. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  That  was  the  thought 
in  his  mind  as  he  recovered  himself.  Surely, 
he  must  take  quick  action,  for  that  glassy  stare 
could  leave  no  doubt  in  his  mind  but  that  the  hours 
— nay,  the  very  minutes,  perhaps — of  the  life 
of  Richard  Broakley  were  numbered. 

How  would  he  break  the  news  to  the  doctor, 
to  Myra,  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Broakley  ?  How 
could  he,  man  of  strength  and  nerve  that  he  was, 
tell  them  that  Richard  Broakley  was  dying — 
perhaps  dead — and  that  his  last  word  was  a  con 
fession  that  he — but,  no,  he  was  still  living,  and 
while  there  was  life  there  was  hope,  and  his  first 
thought  should  be  to  get  him  to  the  doctor's. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

He  must  live — he  must — for  the  sake  of  Myra, 
and  with  no  other  thought  than  that  in  his  mind, 
Jim  lifted  up  the  unconscious  form  lying  at  his 
feet,  placed  it  in  the  saddle  of  Richard's  horse, 
and  holding  it  there  by  sheer  force  of  strength, 
walked  by  the  side  of  Jerry,  who  had  waited  so 
long  by  his  master's  side. 

Slowly,  step  by  step,  they  went  the  half-mile 
from  the  spot  to  Doctor  Boosch's  house.  Arrived 
there,  Jim  Carbon  lifted  Richard  Broakley  off 
the  horse,  and  carrying  him  up  the  gravel  walk 
that  he  had  trod  a  few  hours  before  with  such 
buoyant  step,  placed  him  on  the  porch  where  he 
and  Myra  had  sat  in  enjoyment  of  the  beauty 
of  the  passing  day,  and  went  around  to  the  kitchen 
door. 

Mary  Lash  had  not  retired  as  yet,  but  was 
setting  the  table  for  breakfast,  knowing  that  she 
would  want  to  sleep  up  to  the  very  last  moment 
after  the  gaiety  of  the  night. 

Jim  gently  tapped  at  the  door,  and  as  Mary 
opened  it  she  noticed  the  ashen  face  that  con 
fronted  her. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Jim  Carbon,"  she  said, 
hearing  his  heavy  breathing  from  the  effort  of 
carrying  Richard  to  the  porch,  "nothing  has 
happened  to  you,  has  there  ?" 

"No,    Mary,    not    to    me — but    to    him — Mr. 

49 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Broakley — Richard  Broakley.  Call  the  doctor, 
quick,  and  tell  him  that  there  is  some  one  at  the 
door  needs  his  attention  as  soon  as  the  Almighty 
will  permit  him  to  come  down.  And,  Mary,  do 
not  tell  him  who  it  is." 

The  haste  in  which  this  was  uttered,  the  im 
petuous  manner  of  Jim  Carbon,  usually  so  cool 
and  deliberate  in  his  manner,  was  enough  to  con 
vince  Mary  of  the  urgency  of  this  appeal,  and  she 
almost  flew  up  the  stairs  to  the  doctor's  room, 
knocking  at  his  door  with  sufficient  force  to  arouse 
him  at  once. 

"What  is  it,  Mary?"  he  asked,  in  reply  to  her 
call  of  "Doctor!  Doctor!" 

"Doctor,  Jim  Carbon  says  that  there  is  some 
one  on  the  porch  needs  your  attention  immediately 
— and  I  tell  you,  Doctor,  that  he  said  it  as  if  he 
meant  that  a  moment's  delay  might  be  fatal." 

"I  will  be  down  in  an  instant,"  said  the  doctor, 
who  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  recall  who  in  the 
neighborhood  was  in  such  ill  health  as  to  be  in 
such  urgent  need  of  his  services. 

Slipping  on  his  dressing  gown,  he  came  from 
his  room  before  Mary  scarcely  had  time  to  report 
to  Jim,  who  had  gone  to  the  front  of  the  house 
and  was  awaiting  the  opening  of  the  door  leading 
to  the  porch.  Mary  tremblingly  unlatched  the 
door,  and  Jim  brought  in  his  burden. 

50 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Mary  Lash  was  not  a  girl  to  give  way  to  her 
emotions  or  to  go  into  hysterics  at  the  slightest 
provocation,  but  at  the  sight  of  Richard  Broakley 
as  Jim  carried  him  in,  and  placed  him  on  the  old- 
fashioned  horse-hair  couch,  she  felt  as  if  the  very 
floor  was  giving  way  under  her  feet. 

Dr.  Boosch,  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand,  came  down 
the  stairway,  and  going  up  to  the  couch,  gave  one 
look  at  the  form  that  was  lying  there,  and  exclaimed, 

"What  has  happened,  Jim  ?  What  is  the  mean 
ing  of  this  ?  Speak,  man,  speak  quick!" 

As  Jim,  in  as  few  words  as  he  could,  explained 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  found 
Richard  lying  by  the  roadside,  Doctor  Boosch 
was  examining  Richard,  putting  his  ear  to  his 
heart,  listening  intently,  feeling  his  pulse,  and 
gazing  into  the  eyes  that  had  now  assumed  a 
glassy,  lifeless  stare. 

What  an  eternity  it  seemed  to  Jim  and  Mary, 
who,  with  bated  breath,  watched  eagerly  the  doc 
tor's  lips  for  some  outburst  to  relieve  their  anxiety. 

Finally,  straightening  up,  the  doctor  clasped 
his  hands  together,  and  in  a  voice  that  was  choked 
with  emotion,  exclaimed: 

"Richard  Broakley  is  dead!     God  help  us  all!" 

Aye,  God  help  us  all,  good  doctor! 

Help  the  mother  and  father  of  the  immortal 
clay  now  lying  on  the  couch  before  you. 

51 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Help  you  and  the  mother  of  the  girl  who  so 
loved  the  man  now  lifeless  before  you. 

And,  above  all,  good  doctor,  God  help  Myra, 
the  loving,  trusting,  confiding  spirit  who  was  in 
the  thoughts  of  Richard  Broakley  in  his  dying 
moments. 

Help  me,  too,  for  the  scenes  I  had  to  witness — 
not  only  on  that  night,  but  on  many  others. 

You  did  not  see,  did  you,  good  doctor,  as  I 
saw  when  they  brought  in  the  body  of  Richard, 
the  white-clad  figure  step  from  her  room  into  the 
hall,  and  look  over  the  balustrade  to  see  what 
was  going  on  below  ? 

She  did  not  know,  then,  who  that  was  lying 
upon  the  couch  in  front  of  me,  as  I  solemnly 
ticked  away  the  time.  She  did  not  dream  for  one 
moment  that  her  Richard  was  anywhere  but  safely 
homeward  bound  from  the  meeting  in  the  Town 
Hall. 

For  had  not  she,  notwithstanding  her  fears 
of  the  evening,  finally  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep,  to 
dream  of  her  Richard,  of  their  future,  of  their 
happy  married  life  ?  And  had  she  not  awakened, 
upon  the  sound  at  the  entrance  of  Jim  Carbon 
with  his  burden,  dreaming  of  her  Richard's  manly, 
handsome  face  and  brown  eyes,  now  staring 
lifelessly  at  the  ceiling  above  which  stood  his  Myra  ? 

No,  good  doctor,  you  did  not  see  her  standing 

52 


— and  fall  a  limp  mass  at  your  feet — and  beside  that  of  her  Richard 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

there,  peering  down  through  the  darkness  as 
you  lowered  your  lamp  to  the  face  before  you. 
She  did  not  know,  even  then,  that  you  were  vainly 
striving  to  find  a  spark  of  life  in  one  for  whom 
she  would  have  sacrificed  her  very  life. 

You  did  not  see  her,  did  you,  good  doctor, 
else  you  would  not  have  uttered  so  abruptly  the 
words  you  did: 

"Richard  Broakley  is  dead!     God  help  us  all!" 

But  you  did — we  all  did — hear  the  scream 
that  pierced  the  night,  that  startled  the  marrow 
in  your  bones,  and  that  reverberated  throughout 
the  house  like  the  wail  of  agony  from  a  sorrow- 
stricken  soul. 

You  saw,  though — we  all  did — the  white-clad 
form  of  your  Myra  dart  like  an  arrow  the  full 
length  of  the  stairs,  when  she  heard  your  voice 
of  despair,  and  fall  a  limp  mass  at  your  feet — 
and  beside  that  of  her  Richard — her  husband- 
that-was-to-be. 

You  saw,  didn't  you,  doctor — we  all  saw — 
Jim  Carbon  lift  the  form  of  Myra  as  gently  as 
ever  loving  mother  picked  up  her  creeping  child, 
and  carry  her  in  his  strong  arms,  as  if  she  were 
but  an  infant,  up  the  stairs  and  place  her  upon 
the  bed  from  which  she  had  been  awakened 
to  find  that  the  light  of  her  life  had  gone  out. 

Aye,  good  doctor,  God  help  us  all! 

53 


TICK  THE  EIGHTH 

THE  SUN,  rising  in  the  glory  of  a  new-born 
day,  awakening  nature  from  the  calm,  cool  repose 
of  the  night,  peering  through  the  stained  glass 
of  the  door  leading  into  the  hallway  where  I  was 
keeping  time,  cast  fantastic  shadows  upon  the 
sheet  thrown  over  the  body  of  Richard  Broakley. 

In  the  room  above — in  Myra's  room — her  father 
had  incessantly  concentrated  his  efforts  upon 
bringing  his  daughter  to  consciousness.  She  had 
raved  throughout  the  night — raved  as  only  an 
agonized  soul  thrown  into  the  depths  of  despair 
could — and  with  the  dawning  of  the  day,  the  bright 
rays  of  the  sun  glinting  through  the  delicate 
lace  curtains  of  the  window  of  her  room,  there 
came  a  moment  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  looked 
up,  and  saw  her  father  standing  by  her  bedside, 
haggard  and  worn. 

She  thought,  as  she  gazed  up  at  the  kindly, 
fatherly  face  of  the  doctor,  that  she  detected  tears 
flowing  from  those  soft  blue  eyes.  Reaching 
up  to  draw  his  loving  face  near  enough  to  kiss 

o  o 

him,  she  feverishly  asked: 

"Papa,    it   was    all    a    hideous    dream,    wasn't 

54 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

it  ?     Tell  me,  Richard  is  well  and  will  be  here 
to-day,  won't  he,  papa  ?" 

The  good  doctor,  unable  to  contain  himself, 
burst  into  tears  and  fell  upon  his  knees  beside 
the  bed.  With  hands  clasped  and  uplifted  to 
heaven,  he  cried  out: 

"My  child!  My  daughter!  My  Myra!  May 
God  help  you!  It  was  not  a  dream,  but  a  reality." 

Again  those  eyes  closed  in  the  helplessness 
of  her  despair.  Again  the  father  who  had  kept 
the  long  vigil  of  the  night  hastened  to  apply 
restoratives.  He  feared  the  outcome  of  the  shock 
Myra  had  received — the  crushing  blow  of  a  heart 
suddenly  bereft,  of  a  love  snapped  in  twain; 
he  feared  that  the  mind  of  his  only  daughter — 
"A  daughter,  eh,  good  Mr.  Clock"?"  how  I  re 
member  that! — might  become  a  blank  forever. 

During  the  hours  he  had  kept  watch  over  her 
she  had  raved  about  her  Richard — her  Richard— 
her  Richard.  Never  ending,  never  ceasing,  was 
that  cry.  How  it  thrilled  me,  down  there  in  the 
hall,  with  the  love  of  her  life  dead  in  front  of  me, 
to  hear  that  agonizing,  heart-rending  cry  of  hers — 
"Richard,  Richard,  be  careful.  You  are  so  reck 
less,  you  know,  and  I  am  so  fearful  to-night!" 

And  in  her  raving,  her  delirium,  she  had  be 
trayed  her  secret  to  her  father — the  secret  revealed 
to  Jim  Carbon  by  the  last  word  uttered  by  the 

55 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

man   now   cold    and   lifeless   in   the   hall    below. 

She  never  knew  the  effect  of  the  revelation 
upon  her  father.  She  never  could  know  of  the 
quick-drawn  breath,  the  uplifting  of  the  eyes 
beseeching  the  heavenly  Father  to  help  him — and 
her — in  this,  their  hour  of  trial. 

"God  help  us  all!"  Aye,  good  doctor,  I  thought 
of  that  exclamation  when  you  came  down,  just 
as  my  hands  pointed  to  the  hour  of  five,  for  we 
indeed  need  His  help.  You  did  not  know  that  one 
other  in  the  world  snared  the  secret — and  that  one, 
the  plain  hired  man  who  sat  in  the  kitchen  through 
out  the  night,  awaiting  your  bidding  without 
thought  of  sleep,  without  thought  of  self — with 
only  the  thought  of  Richard  Broakley  and  the 
broken  heart  that  was  bemoaning,  in  her  uncon 
scious  despair,  the  loss  of  all  that  had  made  life 
so  happy,  so  joyous,  so  dear  to  her. 

Who  could  ever  tell  the  many  conflicting  emo 
tions  of  the  good  doctor  that  night  ?  How  could 
he  ever  tell  the  mother  of  Myra — how  could  he 
announce  to  the  neighbors  ? — how  could  he  tell 
the  mother  and  father  of  Richard — how  could 
he  ? — how  could  he  ? — 

How  could  he  ?  Query  after  query  rushed 
and  seethed  through  his  brain,  as  if  they  would 
crowd  each  other  out  of  the  very  temples  throbbing 
with  the  overburdened  mind  trying  to  solve  them. 

56 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

As  she  returned  to  consciousness  the  second 
time,  her  father  was  still  standing  by  her  bedside, 
holding  her  hand  and  smoothing  her  matted  hair. 
There  was  something  about  his  manner  that 
betokened  that  the  love  he  had  borne  his  daughter 
had  grown  deeper — had  become  almost  frenzied. 
He  kissed  her  again  and  again,  admonishing  her 
to  be  a  good  girl  and  bear  her  loss  with  faith  in 
the  Almighty  to  bind  the  wound  in  her  heart — to 
put  her  arms  upon  the  shoulders  of  her  father 
and  cling  to  him  even  though  the  whole  world 
forsake  her. 

Yes,  there  was  something  about  his  manner 
that  Myra  could  not  understand  until,  clinging 
about  his  neck  as  if  he  were  the  Rock  of  Ages, 
she  spoke  to  him  and  said: 

"My  good,  dear  father,  I  need  you  and  your 
love  now  more  than  ever.  You  will  never  lose 
your  love  for  your  Myra,  will  you — will  you, 
father?" 

Who  knows  the  depth  of  a  true,  fatherly  love — 
one  that  condones  the  failings,  the  frailties  of 
human  nature,  the  guiding  light  that  leads  the 
pathway  from  hopelessness  to  hope  eternal  ? 

Such  was  the  love  of  Dr.  Boosch  for  his  daugh 
ter,  and  in  response  to  her  piteous  appeal— 
her  cry  for  help  to  save  her  from  the  abyss  of  the 
future — he  stooped  over,  almost  lifted  her  from 

57 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  bed  in  the  earnestness  of  his  paternal  feeling, 
and  said: 

"  Myra,  my  daughter,  I  now  know  your  secret. 
You  will  need  a  father's  love  and  care,  my  poor 
child.  Cling  to  me,  my  child,  and  do  not  let 
any  one  but  our  God  separate  us." 

What  a  startled  look  came  into  her  eyes  at  her 
father's  words.  He  knew  her  secret — the  secret 
that  she  thought  had  died  with  the  passing  out 
of  the  life  of  her  Richard!  She  thought,  then, 
that  only  two  living  beings  on  earth  knew  it — 
her  good,  kind,  loving  father  and  herself. 

Once  again  she  lapsed  into  delirious  uncon 
sciousness,  and  during  the  period,  Mrs.  Boosch, 
who  had  been  unaware  of  what  had  transpired 
during  the  night,  came  out  of  her  room  and 
inquired  of  Mary,  who  was  seated  in  a  chair 
outside  of  Myra's  room,  where  the  doctor  was. 

"He  is  in  Miss  Myra's  room,  Ma'am.  I  believe 
she  isn't  feeling  well." 

Mrs.  Boosch,  not  the  least  alarmed,  as  she  knew 
that  her  daughter  had  gone  to  bed  feeling  as  well 
and  full  of  life  as  usual,  went  into  the  room  and 
was  startled  by  the  appearance  of  the  doctor, 
who  seemed  to  have  aged  years  during  that  event 
ful  night. 

"Why,  Henry,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  is  the 
meaning  of  this — what  has  happened  ?" 

58 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Mother,"  he  answered  in  his  usual  soft  man 
ner,  "don't  ask  me  to-day.  To-morrow  I'll  tell 
you  all.  But  there's  no  need  to  worry  about 
Myra.  She  has  had  a  nervous  attack,  and  will 
be  all  right  in  a  few  hours." 

The  doctor's  wife,  ever  confiding  in  her  husband, 
was  satisfied  with  his  assurance,  and  after  kissing 
her  daughter's  brow — she  was  evidently  sleeping, 
to  her  mind — came  out  of  the  room  and  started 
down  the  stairs.  She  had  just  a  glimpse  of  the 
sheet  of  white  on  the  couch  when  Jim  Carbon, 
coming  up  the  stairs  and  meeting  her  half  way, 
abruptly  said: 

"Mrs.  Boosch,  not  down  this  way;  the  other 
way." 

"Why,  James,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Why,  you  see — you  see — er — one  of  the 
steps  is  loose  and — I  was  just  going  up  to  get  a 
hammer  and  nails  to  fix  it." 

His  blundering,  stammering  manner,  so  un 
known  in  Jim  Carbon,  convinced  her  that  some 
thing  unusual  had  taken  place  about  the  house 
and  with  a  firm,  determined  step  she  went  the 
remainder  of  the  flight  of  steps  and  walked  up 
to  the  couch  with  the  thought  in  her  mind  that 
some  one  had  overindulged  in  the  festivities 
of  the  night  before. 

She  pulled  the  sheet  suddenly  down,  and,  with- 

59 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

out  cry,  without  moan,  without  utterance,  sank 
into  the  arms  of  Carbon,  who  had  hastened  to 
prevent  her  from  falling  to  the  floor. 

And  again  I  repeated,  in  my  slow,  measured 
ticking  way,  "Aye,  good  doctor,  God  help  us  all!" 

For  the  third  time  within  a  very  few  hours 
Jim  Carbon  carried  in  his  arms  a  human  form — 
this  time  the  one  whom  he  had  learned  to  love 
and  picture  as  his  mother. 

Stolid,  with  seeming  indifference,  Jim  bore  her 
to  her  room,  and  placing  her  upon  her  bed,  with 
Mary  in  attendance,  went  slowly,  as  if  in  a  trance, 
up  to  his  own  room  in  the  attic.  Seating  himself 
on  the  chair  upon  which  he  had  sat  the  first  day 
he  had  entered  that  room,  he  stared  blankly  at 
the  wall  for  some  time — and  fell  asleep. 


60 


TICK  THE  NINTH 

I  WISH  I  could  pass  over  the  unpleasant  episodes 
of  that  day.  How  easy  it  is  to  describe  events 
in  which  all  is  joyousness,  gaiety,  frivolity!  How 
language  flows  when  we  picture  in  words  those 
fleeting  periods  in  our  lives  when  we  are  surrounded 
by  our  dear  ones  and  our  friends,  full  of  life,  of 
hope,  and  of  happiness. 

But  how  different  when  we  are  called  upon 
to  describe  the  feelings  of  those  who  have  been 
stricken  as  if  by  a  death-blow  by  the  taking  away, 
without  warning,  of  their  only  son.  How  can 
I  ever  tell  of  the  mental  torture  of  the  pride  of 
the  Boosch  household — Myra  ?  How  can  I  de 
scribe  the  anguish  that  was  racking  the  heart  of 
Dr.  Boosch,  although,  for  the  sake  of  his  wife — 
her  mother — he  kept  a  calm  exterior  and  re 
peatedly  said  to  her: 

"Mother,  God  will  be  with  us  in  our  hours  of 
trial  and  will  help  us." 

How  can  I  word-picture  the  unseen,  unknown 
grief  in  the  heart  of  Jim  Carbon  ?  How  can  I 
tell  of  the  feelings  of  one  who  had  learned  to  love 
Myra  Boosch,  but  who  knew  that  his  love  would 

61 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

never  be  known  or  reciprocated,  and  who,  in  his 
unselfish  way,  had  looked  forward  to  the  time 
when  those  two  hearts  should  be  linked  together  ? 

Jim  Carbon  had  dozed  about  an  hour,  sitting 
in  his  chair,  when  he  was  aroused  by  a  knock 
at  the  door.  He  jumped  up,  as  if  awakened 
from  a  weird  dream,  and  opened  the  door  and 
peered  out. 

Dr.  Boosch,  pale,  and  trembling  almost,  stood 
there.  He  glanced  about  Jim's  room  and  saw 
that  his  bed  had  not  been  disturbed. 

"Why,  Jim,  I  thought  you  were  in  bed  asleep, 
and  wouldn't  have  disturbed  you  were  it  not  for 
the  reason  that  I  want  you  to  go  over  to  the 
Broakleys  and  break  the  news  to  them.  They 
undoubtedly  think  that  Richard  had  remained 
in  town  over  night,  and  will  probably  expect 
him  by  now.  I  know  what  a  sad  task  it  is,  Jim, 
but  I  don't  feel  well  enough  to  perform  the  duty 
myself.  You  will,  won't  you,  Jim  ?" 

His  voice  was  pleading;  so  much  so,  that  Carbon, 
out  of  the  very  goodness  of  his  good  soul,  did  not 
hesitate  for  an  instant. 

"I'll  go  at  once,  Dr.  Boosch.  Set  your  mind 
at  rest.  It's  a  hard — a  very  hard — thing  to  have 
to  do,  but  it  must  be  done.  I  wish  I  could  do 
more — I  wish  I  could  give  my  life  to  bring  back 
that  of  Mr.  Broakley.  He  had  so  much  to  live 

62 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

for,  while  I — I — well,  no  one  would  have  missed 
me." 

"Say  not  so,  Jim  Carbon;  you  are  liked  by 
every  one  here — by  all  the  neighbors — by  every 
body.  You  are  young  yet,  and  have  much  to 
live  for." 

"You  are  right,  Dr.  Boosch,"  replied  Jim  in  a 
more  hopeful  tone.  "  I'll  go  over  at  once." 

In  a  very  few  minutes  Carbon  came  down 
stairs,  by  way  of  the  kitchen,  and  putting  on  his 
hat  and  coat,  started  out  on  his  unpleasant  mission. 

How  should  he  break  the  news  to  Richard's 
parents  ?  What  language  should  he  employ  ? 
Should  he  be  abrupt  in  telling  them,  or  should 
he  simply  say  that  something  had  happened  to 
their  son  and  let  them  surmise  what  the  outcome 
might  be  ?  Repeating  these  questions  over  and 
over  again  to  himself,  he  finally  concluded  that 
he  would  tell  them  frankly,  tenderly,  that  their 
Richard  had  passed  to  the  great  beyond. 

Taking  a  short  cut  across  the  fields  he  passed 
by  the  widow  Brownson's  house.  He  felt  in 
no  mood,  however,  to  stop  and  have  his  usual 
chat  with  her  or  one  of  the  children,  but  kept 
on  his  way.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  her 
house  he  saw  "Hank"  Decker  looming  up  in 
the  distance.  He  wished  to  avoid  him — or  any 
body,  for  that  matter,  to-day — but  Hank's  keen 

63 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

eyes  had  observed  him,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  meet  him.  He  knew  that  he  would  be 
detained  for  some  time  by  Decker,  whose  talkative 
disposition  was  well  known. 

"Why,  Jim  Carbon,  how  air  yer  ?"  Decker 
said,  putting  out  his  hand.  "I  haint  seen  narthin' 
of  yer  these  menny  days.  By  gum,  but  it  be  good 
fer  sore  eyes  ter  see  yer  lookin'  so  frisky.  Yer 
look  as  ef  yer  mought  be  able  ter  eat  three  square 
meals  a  day." 

"I  am  feeling  fairly  well,"  returned  Jim,  his 
manner  plainly  indicating  that  he  was  in  no  mood 
for  an  animated  conversation.  "And  how  have 
you  been,  and  how  is  Mrs.  Brownson  ?" 

"Meester  Carbon,  I  be  a-feelin'  fine.  And 
as  ter  ther  widder  she's  as  perk  as  kin  be.  She 
be  a-kinder  gettin'  over  her  frettin'  about  her 
lonely  state,  and  seems  ter  be  a-gittin'  chipper 
each  day.  I  think  she  be  gittin'  han'somer  each 
day,  an'  I  were  a-thinkin',  Meester  Carbon,  ther 
other  night,  as  I  sot  in  ther  dinin'-room  a-lookin' 
at  her  knittin',  thet  it  be  a  pity  fer  so  fine  er 
'oman  ter  be  leadin'  sech  er  lonely  life." 

"But  she  is  not  lonely,  Hank.  She  has  her 
children." 

"Aye,  but  ther  children  kain't  be  er  comfert 
thet  a  man — a  good  man  like  me,  f'r  instance — 
could  be  ter  her.  She  be  a  fine  housekeeper, 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

I  tells  yer,  and  a  pretty  savin'  one,  too,  and  do 
yer  know,  Jim" — here  he  became  familiar  in  his 
enthusiasm  and  put  his  face  so  close  to  Carbon's 
ear  as  to  tickle  it  with  his  chin  whisker — "do  yer 
know,  sir,  thet  I  hev  an  idee,  seein'  her  glancin' 
up  at  me  once  in  erwhile,  thet  she  be  a-gettin' 
ter  like  me." 

Here  he  removed  his  chin  whisker  from  such 
close  proximity  to  Jim's  ear,  but  held  him  at  arm's 
length,  and,  alternately  rubbing  one  of  his  boots 
against  the  other,  burst  out: 

"By  cracky,  Meester  Carbon,  do  yer  know 
thet  I  be  a  young  feller  yit,  an'  I  haint  so  bad 
lookin',  nuther,  be  I  ?" 

Jim  saw  there  was  no  evading  an  answer,  so 
he  said,  though  not  with  the  heartiness  that  the 
other  expected: 

"No,  Hank,  you  are  not  a  bad-looking  man. 
But  if  I  were  you  I  would  go  rather  slow  about 
imagining  things.  Mrs.  Brownson,  you  know, 
feels  the  loss  of  her  husband  keenly  yet.  There 
may  come  a  time,  however,  when— 

"Eh,  but  thet  time  be  a-comin',"  interrupted 
Hank,  nudging  Jim  in  the  ribs.  "I  kin  see  it; 
I  kin  see  it.  Ther  be  signs  thet  Hank  Decker 
knows — he  hevin'  a-married  a  widder  afore." 

"Well,  Hank,  I  must  go  on.  I  wish  you  luck, 
anyway." 

65 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Mought  I  ask  where  yer  be  a-goin'  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  see  Mr.  Broakley  on  some 
urgent  business.  That  is  why  I  am  in  such  a 
hurry." 

"  Well,  ef  yer  walk  fast  yer  will  find  him  in  ther 
barn  unhitchin'  of  his  horse,  proberbly,  fer  he 
passed  yere  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"Thanks,  Hank,  I  will  hurry  on,  as  I  want  to 
see  him  before  he  goes  into  the  house,"  said  Car 
bon,  who  welcomed  the  opportunity  to  get  Mr. 
Broakley  alone — it  would  spare  him  from  some 
of  the  sorrow  of  the  scene  that  he  knew  he  would 
have  to  witness  if  they  were  both  present  when 
he  announced  the  sad  tidings. 

He  walked  the  half-mile  to  Mr.  Broakley's 
barn  at  a  swinging  pace  and  saw  him  pitching 
hay  into  the  stall  where  he  had  just  put  his  horse. 

"How  do  you  do,  Jim  ?"  was  his  greeting. 

"It  is  well  with  me,  Mr.  Broakley,"  he  said; 
"  I  wish  it  were  as  well  with  others." 

"With  others  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

He  had  detected  the  note  of  sadness  in  Carbon's 
voice,  usually  so  brusque  and  full  of  spirit. 

"I  mean,  Mr.  Broakley — I  mean — that  there 
are  times  in  our  lives  when  we  have  to  tell  others — 
I  mean  that  I  would  rather  give  my  life  than  to 
have  to  tell  you  that — that— 

"That  what,  man  ?"   almost  impatiently  cried 

66 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Mr.  Broakley,  becoming  alarmed  at  the  tremulous, 
half-choking  voice  of  Carbon. 

"I  mean,  Mr.  Broakley,  that  I  must  inform 
you  that  your  son  Richard  has  met  with  an 
accident." 

"An  accident?  Was  he  badly  hurt?  Where 
is  he  ?  How  did  it  happen  ?  I'll  hitch  up  again 
at  once  and  go  to  him." 

"Yes,  an  accident.  He  was  badly  hurt — in 
fact,  so  badly  hurt  that  he  is— 

Here  Carbon  felt  a  lump  come  up  in  his  throat 
that  choked  the  utterance  of  the  one  word  that  he 
wished  out — and  over  with. 

"Jim  Carbon,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  he 
was  so  badly  hurt  that  there  is  danger  of  his 
losing  his  life,  do  you,  man  ?" 

"Mr.    Broakley,   your   son   Richard   is — is— 
dead." 

The  father  of  Richard  Broakley  stared  blankly 
at  Jim  Carbon  for  a  moment.  The  pitchfork 
fell  from  his  hands,  he  clasped  the  bin  of  the 
stall  with  an  iron  grip,  and  cried  out: 

"His  mother!  His  mother!  Don't  tell  her! 
It  will  kill  her!" 

Never  a  word  about  his  own  anguish.  Only 
for  her — his  "sweetheart"  still,  as  she  was  in 
days  of  yore. 

67 


TICK  THE  TENTH 

JIM  CARBON,  having  relieved  himself  of  his 
onerous  task,  completely  unnerved  by  the  sight 
of  the  man  staggering  under  the  blow,  explained 
in  as  few  words  as  possible  what  had  happened, 
omitting  any  reference  whatever  to  Richard's 
last  word,  save  to  say  that  he  had  asked  for  Myra. 
He  desired  to  leave  Mr.  Broakley  as  soon  as  he 
could.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  any  more  such 
grief  as  had  been  his  lot  to  witness  within  a  few 
hours.  He  would  leave  the  father  to  break  the 
sad  news  to  Richard's  mother.  He  put  out  his 
hand  to  Mr.  Broakley  and  sorrowfully  said: 

"Mr.  Broakley,  may  the  loving  grace  of  the 
kind,  heavenly  Father  be  with  you  and  yours." 

He  then  started  on  his  return  to  the  Boosch 
homestead.  He  walked  rapidly,  lest  he  be  called 
back.  Glancing  over  his  shoulders,  he  saw  the 
senior  Broakley  tottering  on  his  way  to  the  house, 
his  frame  shaken  by  the  sobs  that  were  now 
beginning  to  relieve  the  pent-up  emotions.  He 
wondered  how  Richard's  mother  would  bear  up 
under  the  news.  He  wondered  why  such  things — 
such  calamities — must  be,  when  all  nature  seemed 

68 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  be  smiling  under  the  summer  sun,  the  fields 
aglow  with  the  ripening  grain,  the  birds  singing 
their  lays,  the  very  insects  droning  their  content 
with  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  that  summer's 
day. 

And  then  his  mind  reverted  to  the  last  moments 
of  Richard,  when  he  had  asked  for  Myra  and  a 
minister.  He  was  in  a  mental  struggle  with 
himself.  His  firm,  measured  tread,  with  head 
bowed  down,  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 
eyes  set  upon  the  ground — these  were  evidences 
that  Jim  Carbon's  thoughts  were  of  the  deepest. 

Suddenly,  as  if  inspired,  he  straightened  up, 
brought  his  fists  together  with  a  clash  and  mumbled 
to  himself: 

"Jim  Carbon,  you've  got  to  do  it — you  must 
do  it — for  her  sake — for  the  sake  of  her  father 
and  mother — for  the  sake  of  all  concerned.  You 
must,  you  must — no  matter  at  what  sacrifice." 

This  outburst  of  self-command  seemed  to 
satisfy  him.  His  step  became  as  light  as  usual; 
his  lips  became  set,  determined.  Whatever  he 
had  decided  upon  was  for  the  best,  he  felt,  even 
though  he  should  be  the  one  to  bear  the  sacrifice — 
to  suffer — to  give  up  all  those  who  had  so  endeared 
themselves  to  him. 

He  walked  on  and  on,  with  springy  step,  neither 
caring  nor  wanting  to  meet  any  one,  when  he 

69 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

was  confronted  by  Mary,  who  had  gone  down 
the  lane  from  the  main  road  for  some  exercise 
after  the  night  and  day's  vigil  by  Myra's  door. 
She  was  anxious  to  know  what  effect  the  awful 
news  had  had  upon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Broakley. 
She  was  anxious  to  know  when  the  body  would 
be  removed.  She  was  fearful  that  her  mistress 
might  steal  down  into  the  hall — and  then  what  ? 

"Jim  Carbon,"  she  said,  "yours  has  been  a  sad 
mission.  I  hope  that  they  did  not  take  it  too  hard." 

"Miss  Mary,"  said  Jim,  "I  trust  that  I  shall 
never  again  be  sent  upon  such  an  errand.  I  did 
not  see  Mrs.  Broakley.  The  sight  of  Mr.  Broak- 
ley's  grief  was  as  much  as  I  could  bear.  How 
is  Miss  Boosch  ?" 

"Miss  Myra  is  in  a  very  critical  state,  indeed. 
Her  father  has  been  with  her  constantly  and  seems 
very  much  concerned  about  her.  It  is  awful, 
isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  indeed  awful.  The  death  of  Richard 
Broakley  means  so  much  to  us  all — to  Miss 
Boosch,  to  her  parents,  to  his  father  and  mother, 
and  to  me — yes,  to  me — much  to  me.  It  may 
be  the  cause  of  my  leaving  forever  this  happy  home 
that  I  have  had  for  the  last  four  years.  Miss 
Mary,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "if  I  should  go  away— 
if  I  should  leave  here — you  will  always  think 
kindly  of  me,  will  you  not  ?" 

70 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

She  gave  one  startled  look  up  at  his  face — she 
was  so  much  smaller  than  the  big,  powerful  man 
beside  her  that  it  was  necessary  to  look  up — and 
exclaimed  quickly,  heatedly: 

"You — you  are — going  away?  I  don't  under 
stand!" 

"You  may  never  understand,  Miss  Mary — 
you  may  never  understand.  But  I  want  you  to 
think  well  of  me  when  I  am  gone.  I  want  to 
feel  that  I  take  your  good  will  and  wishes  with  me. 
I  want  to  feel  as  if  some  one  felt  a  regret  at  my 
going." 

Mary  looked  at  him  with  inquiring  eyes.  What 
did  it  mean,  his  going  away  at  such  a  time,  when 
his  spiritual  help  was  so  needed  ?  Why  this 
sudden  resolve  ?  Was  there  a  mystery  in  Richard 
Broakley's  death  that  had  impelled  him  to  this 
sudden  resolution  ?  Could  it  be  possible  that 
he  was  involved — but,  no,  banish  the  thought! 

Mary  had  formed  an  affection  for  the  big, 
scrawny,  muscular  man  beside  her — an  affection 
which  she  had  hoped  would  in  time  be  shared  by 
him.  She  had  admired  him  for  his  manly  strength, 
for  his  cool,  self-possessed  manner,  for  his  willing 
ness  to  help  all  at  all  times,  for  his  bigness  of 
heart — and,  above  all,  for  his  manifest  devotion 
to  all  in  that  household.  She  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  his  going  away,  and  so  suddenly,  too. 

71 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Do  not  talk  so,'*  she  said.  "You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  if  you  went  away  every  one  here 
would  feel  a  regret — not  I  alone.  But  why  should 
you  go  ?  Ain't  you  happy  and  contented  here  ?" 

"Yes,  happy  and  contented  I  was.  But  there 
is  a  duty  far  deeper  than  my  own  happiness  and 
contentment  that  has  made  me  resolve  upon 
undertaking  something  that  will  mean  my  leaving 
this  place — this  home — maybe  forever." 

"Jim  Carbon,  you  don't  know  how  lonely  I" 
(she  corrected  herself  hurriedly),  "that  is,  we — 
will  feel  if  you  should  go  away.  But  you  will 
write  and  let  me — that  is,  us — hear  from  you  ?" 

"No,  if  I  go  away  to-night  or  to-morrow  no 
one  shall  ever  hear  of  or  from  me  again." 

This  was  more  than  Mary  could  bear.  She 
already  felt  desolate,  forsaken,  at  the  very  thought 
of  his  leaving  the  homestead.  She  would  miss 
the  companion  of  her  evenings  at  dominoes,  and 
his  help  with  the  chores  about  the  house.  Had 
he  not,  when  he  knew  that  she  was  to  spend  an 
evening  out,  laughingly  taken  the  dish  towel 
and  dried  dishes  for  her  ?  Had  he  not,  when  he 
saw  her  with  the  hamper  full  of  wash,  taken  it 
from  her,  when  she  was  staggering  under  the  load, 
and  lifted  it  up  on  his  big,  broad  shoulders  as  if 
it  were  full  of  feathers  ?  Had  he  not,  after  a 
hard  day's  work  in  the  field,  sat  up  until  late 

72 


and  then  gone  out  to  escort  her  home  from  some 
country  frolic,  paying  no  heed  to  her  assurances 
that  she  was  not  afraid  to  come  home  alone  ? 

She  could  contain  herself  no  longer  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"Oh,  Jim  Carbon,  how  can  you  think  of  such 
a  thing  ?  Have  you  no  regard — no  love — for 
those  you  will  leave  behind — for  the  doctor,  who 
has  been  so  good  to  you;  for  Mrs.  Boosch,  who 
has  been  like  a  mother  to  you;  for  Miss  Myra 
and  for  Arthur  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  slowly  and  solemnly,  "I 
love  them  all — love  them  as  father  and  mother, 
as  brother — and  sister.  But  I  have  a  duty  far 
dearer  than  all  to  perform,  and  which  rises  above 
all  selfish  feelings  on  my  part." 

She  felt  as  if  she  would  ask  him  to  remain  for 
her  sake — to  remain  that  he  might  learn  to  re 
turn  the  love  in  her  heart  for  him. 

He,  unaware  of  the  affection  that  was  bestowed 
upon  him,  took  her  hand  in  his — how  it  trembled, 
he  noticed — and  said  feelingly: 

"  Mary,  I  think  it  is  the  last  time  we  will  shake 
hands.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  welcome 
I  received  from  you  in  yonder  house.  May 
God  keep  and  prosper  you  and  make  you  happy 
for  the  many,  many  years  I  hope  you  will  live 
to  enjoy  life.  Good-bye." 

73 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

And  he  stooped  over  and  kissed  her  hand  with 
a  fervency  that  left  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of 
his  prayer. 

"Good-bye,  Jim  Carbon,"  she  returned,  the 
tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  why  do  you 
add  to  the  bitterness  of  this  day — why  do  you  add 
to  the  sorrows  of  those  within  this  hitherto  happy 
and  peaceful  house  ?" 

"Mary,  it  is  all  for  the  best.  Perhaps  some  day 
you  will  know — will  feel  that  I  was  right  in  my 
decision.  Before  you  go  into  the  house,  I  wish 
you  would  promise  me  that  you'll  fix  it  so  that  I 
can  see  Dr.  Boosch  in  the  hall  alone  to-night. 
Make  some  excuse  that  you  have  come  to  relieve 
him  so  that  he  can  take  a  little  exercise,  but 
be  sure  that  it's  late  and  that  all  the  other  folks 
have  retired.  Don't  fail  me  in  this — I  must  see 
him,  and  alone.  It  will  be  the  last  favor  I  will 
ask  of  you — may  I  trust  you  ?" 

"You  may.     Good-bye." 

Jim  went  straight  to  his  room  and  remained 
there  throughout  the  entire  afternoon  and  evening. 
No  one  disturbed  him,  as  all  knew  that  he  had  not 
gone  to  bed  the  previous  night,  and  supposed 
that  he  was  sleeping  soundly. 

Not  so,  however.  Jim  Carbon  paced  his  room 
for  hours,  feverishly  awaiting  the  sound  of  the 
doctor's  footsteps  upon  the  stairs.  A  fearful 

74 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

storm  had  arisen  during  the  night,  and  he  watched 
it  from  his  window,  and  compared  it  to  the  storm 
that  had  arisen  in  the  lives  within  that  house. 
How  like  the  day  it  seemed  to  him.  The  beauti 
ful  day,  with  its  sunshine,  then  the  gathering  of  the 
clouds,  and  then  the  storm. 

As  my  hands  were  pointing  to  the  hour  of  ten 
he  heard  the  doctor's  tread  upon  the  stairs.  He 
opened  the  door,  peered  out,  and  said  to  himself: 

"Now,  Jim  Carbon,  is  your  time." 


75 


TICK  THE  ELEVENTH 

I  AM  only  the  old-fashioned  family  clock,  trying 
in  my  simple  way  to  tick  off  this  tale,  the  events 
of  which  either  transpired  in  my  presence  or  which 
I  gathered  in  after  years  from  happenings  and 
conversations,  and  which  I  have  pieced  together. 

When  I  think  of  that  night,  with  those  two 
men  battling  before  me — not  a  physical  battle, 
mind  you,  but  a  battle  of  words — as  man  to  man — 
of  the  groping  despair  of  the  one,  and  the  pas 
sionate,  earnest,  pathetic,  dramatic  pleading  of 
the  other  to  allow  himself  to  be  made  a  sacrifice 
upon  the  altar  of  the  gossips  of  the  community; 
to  sacrifice  the  friends  he  had  made;  to  sacrifice 
the  reputation  he  had  won  for  honesty  and  manli 
ness  of  purpose;  to  sacrifice  the  unblemished 
name  that  had  been  carried  by  the  Carbons 
through  life — aye,  to  sacrifice  his  very  future 
for  all  time  to  those  who  had  so  endeared  them 
selves  to  him  that  no  others  in  this  world  could 
take  their  places  in  his  heart — when  I  think  of 
that  night,  I  say,  words  seem  to  fail  me. 

My,  but  how  the  storm  raged  that  night! 
How  the  lightning  flashes  made  ghastly  at  times 

76 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  faces  of  those  two  earnest,  honest  men,  only 
to  be  made  mellow  again  by  the  soft  glow  of  the 
hall  light.  How  like  their  emotions  was  that 
interchanging  of  color. 

First  the  white  heat  of  passion  of  the  father 
of  Myra;  then  the  gradual  mellowing,  as  Jim 
Carbon,  inch  by  inch,  fought  the  doctor  back 
to  his  fortress,  compelling  his  slow  retreat,  com 
pelling  recognition  of  his  appeal,  of  his  demand- 
yes,  of  his  almost  imperative  demand.  It  seemed 
to  me,  keeping  time  there  and  listening  to  the 
words  that  came  from  the  very  bottom  of  the 
hearts  of  those  two,  that  Jim  Carbon  grew  taller, 
more  powerful,  each  minute.  He  appeared  to 
tower  above  the  good  doctor  and  to  take  his 
poignant  word-arrows  as  if  they  were  shafts  from 
Cupid  instead  of  from  the  father  of  the  girl  whose 
very  life  depended  upon  the  outcome  of  this  war 
between  them. 

Aye,  Jim  Carbon,  I  loved  you  ever  since  I  first 
knew  you,  as  only  an  old  family  clock  can  love 
a  manly,  honest,  pure-hearted  soul  such  as  yours. 
But  I  loved  you  more  that  night — I  wish  there 
were  words  in  my  simple  lexicon  that  could  de 
scribe  how  I  loved  you.  How  I  wished  that  I 
could  put  out  my  hands  and  throw  them  around 
your  neck  and  cry  out: 

"Jim  Carbon,  you  may  be  only  a  plain  farmer's 

77 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

helper,  but  the  good  God  above,  who  measures 
His  disciples  not  by  their  station  in  life,  but  by 
their  worthiness,  will  greet  you  upon  your  ascen 
sion  and  take  you  unto  Himself  and  give  you  the 
place  of  honor  by  His  side." 

I  see  you  now,  Jim  Carbon,  with  your  big, 
scrawny  frame  towering  above  the  doctor;  I  see 
you  with  your  kindly  face  lighted  up  by  the  passion 
in  your  soul — not  of  anger,  but  of  love;  I  see  you, 
grasping  the  hand  that  was  extended  to  you  upon 
the  capitulation  of  the  doctor,  your  face  radiant 
with  the  joy  that  was  yours  in  the  knowledge 
that  you  had  won  the  battle — that  you  were  the 
victor,  not  for  your  own  self-aggrandizement, 
but  that  you  had  won  the  right  to  give  up  all  for 
one  who  had  won  your — love.  Yes,  I  am  not 
afraid  to  say  it — your  love. 

I  repeat  again,  Jim  Carbon,  that  I  loved  you 
more  than  ever  that  night — that  night  when  I 
saw  you  pass  up  the  stairs  for  the  last  time  for 
so  many,  many  years  that  I  despaired  of  ever 
seeing  you  again. 

But  I  am  transgressing. 

Three  hours  before  the  doctor  emerged  from 
Myra's  room  the  village  undertaker  and  his 
assistant  arrived  and  removed  all  that  was  earthly 
of  Richard  Broakley.  No  one  was  present  but 
those  two  and  myself. 

78 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Dr.  Boosch,  fearful  lest  Myra  should  hear 
the  scuffling  of  feet  below  and  should  divine 
the  cause,  dared  not  leave  her.  Jim  Carbon  was 
in  his  room  beyond  earshot  of  the  sounds.  Mary 
Lash  had  the  wisdom  and  forethought  to  get 
Mrs.  Boosch  into  the  kitchen  upon  the  pretext 
of  asking  her  advice  upon  some  domestic  matters. 
And  so,  tenderly  and  compassionately,  those  two 
lifted  the  body  of  Richard  from  the  couch  and 
placed  it  in  the  wagon  without.  And  I — I  ticked 
on,  for  is  it  not  my  province  to  keep  on  ticking  away 
the  moments,  though  other  lifebeats  have  been 
stilled  ? 

For  three  hours  I  kept  lonely  vigil,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  undisturbed  by  sound  of  living  being, 
down  here  in  the  hall.  And  then  I  heard  Mary 
Lash  knock  at  Myra's  door  and  enter.  A  few 
moments  thereafter  Dr  Boosch  came  out  and 
walked  down  the  stairs  with  slow  tread.  He  was 
no  longer  a  young  man,  was  Dr.  Boosch,  and 
the  events  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours  had 
seemed  to  add  years  to  his  life. 

He  had  scarcely  paced  up  and  down  the  hall 
half  a  dozen  times  and  seated  himself  on  the  couch 
upon  which  but  a  few  hours  before  had  lain  the 
body  of  Richard,  when  he  heard  footsteps  upon 
the  stairs,  and  looking  up  beheld  Jim  Carbon, 
with  head  poised  high  in  air,  his  jaws  set  with 

79 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

grim  determination,  his  eyes  fairly  blazing  in  the 
faint,  mellow  light  of  the  hall  lamp.  Now  and 
then  the  brilliant  flashes  of  lightning  penetrated 
the  very  innermost  recesses  of  the  hall  and  the 
parlor  beyond,  only  to  fade  away  again  and  leave 
our  shadows  dancing  fantastically  like  marionettes 
upon  the  wall. 

"Why,  Jim,"  greeted  the  doctor,  "I  thought 
every  one  in  the  house  but  Mary  and  myself 
was  asleep.  Has  the  storm  kept  you  awake  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Jim,  seating  himself  upon  the 
couch  beside  the  doctor;  "I  haven't  attempted 
any  sleep;  I  have  had  so  many  things  to  think 
of  these  few  hours  that  my  brain  seems  to  be  in 
a  whirl.  Sleep  has  been  out  of  the  question." 

"But  you  did  not  sleep  the  night  before,  Jim. 
By  the  way,  you  never  told  me  how  Mr.  Broakley 
and  Mrs.  Broakley — " 

"Dr.  Boosch,"  interrupted  Jim,  "let  me  spare 
you  a  recital  of  that,  more  than  to  say  that  I  saw 
only  Mr.  Broakley's  father.  It  isn't  necessary 
for  me  to  tell  you  of  a  father's  grief  at  the  loss  of 
his  only  son — of  his  only  child.  In  fact,  I  did  not 
come  down  here  to  speak  of  that  matter.  I 
came  down  to  talk  to  you  as  man  to  man — not 
as  employee  to  employer.  I  feel  that  I  have  a 
right  to  speak — a  right  to  address  you  on  a  matter 
that  concerns  you  and  your  wife  and  your  daugh- 

80 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

ter — that  concerns  us  all.  I  wish  that  whatever 
I  have  to  say  will  not  be  misconstrued." 

"Why,  Jim/*  the  doctor  replied,  "what  has 
gone  amiss  ?" 

He  could  not  understand  the  strange,  unusual 
manner  of  the  man  addressing  him.  There  was 
something  so  peculiar,  so  unlike  Jim  Carbon, 
that  he  seemed  to  be  a  different  person.  His  calm, 
cool  manner  had  given  way  to  a  quick,  impetuous 
utterance  of  speech,  as  if  the  words  he  spoke  were 
belching  from  a  pent-up,  erupting  Vesuvius. 

"There  is  something  amiss,  Dr.  Boosch,"  he 
said.  "There  is  something  I  would  speak  to  you 
about — something  I  think  should  be  done  this 
very  night;  I  do  not  think  there  should  be  an 
hour's  delay.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  agree  with 
me  when  you  know  why  I  am  here  to  make  my 
request." 

Here  Carbon  paused  for  an  instant,  extended 
his  hand  to  the  doctor,  and  said : 

"Dr.  Boosch,  from  the  moment  that  I  entered 
your  home  I  think  I  have  always  kept  my  place — 
I  have  always  honored  you  and  have  been  respected 
by  you.  Is  there  any  one  in  this  house  who  can 
say  aught  but  good  of  me  ?" 

The  doctor,  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  interrogation,  replied : 

"Why,  no.     Why  do  you  ask  that?     Has  any 

81 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

one  given  you  any  intimation  that  it  was  other 
wise  ?" 

"No,  sir,  only  I  wanted  you  to  feel  that  I 
am  not  forgetting  my  position  in  this  household 
when  I  tell  you  the  reason  why  I  have  come  here 
to  speak  to  you  alone." 

Another  flash  of  lightning  illumined  those  two 
faces  before  me — one  intently  and  beseechingly 
looking  at  the  other,  wondering  what  he  was  going 
to  say,  and  the  other  wondering  how  he  should 
say  it. 

Finally,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  Jim  blurted 
out,  with  the  half-expectation  of  a  man  who  was 
awaiting  a  death  sentence: 

"Dr.  Boosch,  I  want  to  marry  your  daughter 
Myra!" 

The  good  doctor  gasped  as  one  who  had  been 
suddenly  immersed  in  icy  water,  looked  into  the 
anxious  face  beside  him  for  what  seemed  to  Carbon 
an  interminable  length  of  time,  and,  putting  one 
hand  on  Carbon's  shoulder  and  shaking  him  as 
if  he  would  awaken  him  from  a  trance,  exclaimed: 

"  Jim  Carbon,  have  you  gone  mad  ?" 


82 


TICK  THE  TWELFTH 

HAVE  you  ever  sat  in  the  quiet  hours  of  the 
night  and  listened  to  the  ticking  of  your  clock  ? 
Have  you  noticed  that  while  the  ticking  was 
regular  and  rhythmic,  at  certain  periods  it  seemed 
to  you  that  the  sound  of  the  ticks  was  so  accen 
tuated  that  it  could  be  likened  unto  the  beating 
of  a  muffled  drum,  and  then  for  a  while  it  seemed 
as  if  the  ticks  were  coming  faster,  and  faster 
and  faster,  until  your  tense  nerves  relaxed  and  you 
found  that  there  had  been  no  variation  at  all  ? 

So  it  was  with  me  after  Jim  Carbon  had  made 
that  startling  request  and  Dr.  Boosch  had  made 
his  doubting  reply — "  Jim  Carbon,  have  you  gone 
mad  ?" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  very  mainspring 
became  so  wrought  up  with  the  tenseness  of  that 
brief  period  of  silence  that  I  ticked  louder  than  I 
had  ever  done  before.  I  watched  anxiously  the 
faces  of  the  two  men  seated  upon  the  couch  before 
me. 

Carbon,  cool  and  calm  in  his  manner,  but 
passionate  in  his  earnestness,  looked  Dr.  Boosch 
full  in  the  eyes  for  a  moment,  while  he  groped, 

83 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

evidently,   for  words   further  to  express  himself. 

Dr.  Boosch,  almost  doubting  his  senses,  was 
staring  at  Jim  Carbon  as  if  he  half  expected  that 
he  would  break  out  as  a  raving  maniac.  The 
thought  flashed  through  his  mind  that  Carbon 
had  become  unnerved  by  the  tragedy  of  the  day 
before  and  had  become  temporarily  insane.  He 
saw,  however,  only  those  keen  gray  eyes  searching 
his  as  if  he  would  fathom  their  depths. 

Suddenly,  as  if  released  by  the  snapping  asunder 
of  a  cable,  Jim  Carbon  seemed  to  find  voice 
for  expression  and  vehemently  said : 

"No,  Dr.  Boosch,  I  am  not  mad.  I  thought 
you  would  think  so  if  I  should  ask  your  daughter's 
hand  in  marriage — and  at  such  a  time  as  this, 
too.  No,  Dr.  Boosch,  I  am  not  mad" — here 
he  arose  and  stood  in  front  of  the  doctor,  drawing 
himself  to  his  full  height  and  extending  his  arms 
in  the  earnestness  of  his  appeal.  "What  I  am 
asking  you  is  not  the  request  of  a  madman,  but 
that  of  a  man  who  has  spent  the  day  and  night 
in  deliberation  of  this — the  resolve  of  a  man  who 
is  as  sane  as  ever  man  could  be." 

"Jim  Carbon,  do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying  ?  Do  you  know,  Jim,  that  you  are  insult 
ing  me  by  your  insane  proposal  to  marry — " 

"Dr.  Boosch,"  interrupted  Jim,  "you  are  the 
last  man  in  the  world  I  would  insult,  and  your 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

daughter  is  the  last  person  of  all  who  would  ever 
receive  from  me  anything  but  respect — you  know 
that  as  well  as  I." 

The  doctor  seemed  stunned.  He  half  arose,  then 
sank  back  upon  the  couch  again.  He  could 
scarcely  believe  that  he  had  heard  aright — scarcely 
believe  that  his  own  mind  was  not  giving  way 
under  the  strain  of  the  many  hours  of  weary 
vigil  by  Myra's  side.  He  passed  his  hand  over 
his  brow  as  if  he  would  dispel  the  clouds  that 
seemed  to  befog  his  brain. 

He  turned  to  the  man  standing  in  front  of  him 
and  heatedly  said: 

"Jim  Carbon,  I  cannot  understand  what  you 
mean.  How  dare  you  insult  me — all  of  us — 
by  making  such  a  proposal  ?  You,  sir,  shall  leave 
this  house — instantly!  Oh,  why  do  you  add  to 
my  suffering  ?"  he  added,  his  tone  modulating 
somewhat.  "Leave  me  alone;  go,  and  do  not  let 
us  ever  see  you  again." 

"I  shall  go,  Dr.  Boosch,"  replied  Carbon,  in 
a  gentle  voice.  "  Such  was  my  intention,  anyway. 
I  have  not  come  here  to  insult  you.  I  have  come 
here,  after  many  hours  of  conflict  with  myself, 
to  offer  to  save  the  honor  of  your  daughter — to 
spare  her  from  the  taunts  of  the  world — to  give 
her  a  name.  I  have  no  thought  of  myself,  of  my 
future — only  of  her.  Let  me  marry  her  to-night — 

85 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

at  once — and  then  I  shall  leave  this  house  and  go 
out  into  the  world  and  lose  my  identity — my 
name — to  all  hereabout  for  time  eternal.  I 
promise  you — I  swear  it — that  you  shall  never 
see  me  again." 

His  hands  were  held  out  imploringly;  he  spoke 
so  rapidly  that  the  words  were  fairly  crowded 
upon  each  other.  The  doctor,  quivering  in  every 
nerve,  attempted  to  speak  further — to  stop  what 
he  considered  a  dastardly  impertinence  upon 
the  part  of  Carbon,  whom  he  had  respected  and 
admired  for  the  years  he  had  been  a  member  of  his 
household. 

"Dr.  Boosch,"  continued  Carbon,  passionately, 
heatedly,  "  you  must — you  must — let  me  marry 
your  daughter  Myra !  You  must — you  must,  I  say 
—let  me  save  the  honor  of  your  daughter  and  of 
her— his—  " 

"My  God!"  cried  Dr.  Boosch,  "you  know  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Jim,  "I  know  that.  I 
know  what  the  world  will  say;  I  know  what  your 
daughter  is  to  you  and  to  Mrs.  Boosch;  I  know 
that  by  marrying  her  and  leaving  her  at  once 
I  can  save  her  honor  and  her  name.  The  world 
will  hear  that  Jim  Carbon  had  married  her 
clandestinely  and  had  deserted  her.  It  will  con 
demn  me,  it  will  taunt  me  with  being  a  scoundrel, 
it  will  place  upon  me  the  stigma  of  a  man  who 

86 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

had  rewarded  confidence  by  a  contemptible  act — 
so  much  the  better.  The  greater  the  abuse 
heaped  upon  me  the  lighter  will  be  the  burden 
upon  her — upon  Miss  Myra.  Listen  to  my 
appeal,  Dr.  Boosch;  listen  to  the  appeal  of  a  man 
who  has  learned  to  love  you  all — to  the  appeal  of 
one  who  begs  the  privilege  of  sacrificing  all  that 
is  dear  to  him  in  this  world  to  save  the  honor 
of  a  woman  he  has  dared — yes,  dared,  for  he  could 
not  help  it — to  love." 

He  paused  for  breath,  but  only  for  an  instant 
when  he  resumed: 

"Dr.  Boosch,  as  God  is  my  witness,  I  swear — 
I  swear  by  the  sainted  presence  of  my  father  and 
mother,  that  I  will  never  breathe  a  word  to  a 
living  soul  of  what  shall  be  a  secret  between 
us  as  long  as  life  shall  last.  Dr.  Boosch,"  he 
said,  beseechingly,  imploringly,  "you  can  see  how 
much  this  means  to  you — to  Miss  Myra,  to  your 
family — how  little  to  me,  who  will  go  away  as  an 
outcast — to  drift,  I  care  not  where." 

"Jim  Carbon,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  are  you 
trying  to  take  advantage  of  a  father's  misfortune, 
of  a  woman's— 

"I  am  taking  no  advantage,"  said  Carbon,  in 
a  softer,  modulated  tone.  "Dr.  Boosch,  do  not 
think  that  I  have  thought  of  myself — do  not,  do 
not.  Let  me  marry  Miss  Myra,  that  all  may 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

be  right,  and  the  instant  that  is  done  I  shall  leave — 
the  very  instant,  no  matter  if  it  is  in  the  storm  that 
now  rages.  Dr.  Boosch,  can't  you  understand 
me,  can't  you  believe  me,  can't  you  trust  me, 
can't  you  see  that  I  only  beg  the  privilege  of  setting 
right  before  the  world — " 

"Carbon,  Carbon,  give  me  time  to  think, 
give  me — " 

"There  is  no  time  to  think;  your  duty  is  plain— 
my  duty  is  plain.  I  plead,  I  beg,  I  entreat  you, 
let  the  world  condemn  me,  let  the  world's  hatred 
toward  me  be  what  it  will.  Mine  was  a  respected 
name  and  only  you  and  your  family  shall  ever 
know  that  it  is  so  still.  It  must  be  so,  Dr.  Boosch; 
can't  you  understand  ?" 

He  paused  for  breath  and  looked  fixedly  at 
the  doctor — now  beginning  to  understand  the 
unselfish  motive  of  the  big,  plain,  scrawny  figure 
in  front  of  him. 

"Jim  Carbon,"  said  the  doctor,  his  voice  almost 
failing  him,  "I  begin  to  understand.  Perhaps — 
perhaps  it  would  be  best.  But  you — you  will 
sacrifice  everything— your  home  here,  your  friends, 
your  name — 

"Don't  speak  of  that,  Dr.  Boosch,  don't  speak 
of  that.  Only  speak  of  what  must  be  done  this 
night — yes,  this  night.  A  delay  of  a  day  might 
mean  that  your  daughter's  reason  might  give  way — 

88 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

let  her  understand  that  she  will  be  righted  before 
the  world  to-night,  and  that  she  need  never  see 
me  again.  Let  her  understand  that  she  will 
be  as  free  from  Jim  Carbon  as  if  he  were  dead— 
for  neither  she  nor  any  one  else  shall  ever  see 
me  again.  I  shall  go  thousands  of  miles  away 
from  here,  unknown  to  any  living  soul,  for  I  shall 
not  carry  even  my  name.  I  have  given  this 
earnest,  deep  thought,  Dr.  Boosch,  ever  since 
I  listened  to  the  dying  confession  of  Richard 
Broakley." 

The  doctor  arose  from  the  couch,  and  taking 
hold  of  both  of  Jim  Carbon's  hands  dropped  his 
head  upon  the  broad  shoulder  of  the  muscular 
man  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

"There,  there,  Dr.  Boosch,  don't  take  on  so. 
You  don't  know  what  a  child  you  are  making 
of  me — I  feel  as  if  I  should  want  to  cry,  too.  I 
feel  as  if  I — but  none  of  that!  You  will — you  will 
grant  my  wish — my  earnest  prayer  ?" 

"Jim  Carbon,  you  are  one  of  God's  noblemen. 
I  see  it  will  be  for  the  best — for  all  concerned  but 
yourself." 

"Don't  think  of  me,  don't  think  of  me,"  said 
Jim,  smoothing  the  whitening  hair  of  the  head 
drooping  upon  his  shoulder.  "Think  only  of 
her — of  her  mother — of  yourself.  I  shall  drive 
at  once  and  get  Mr.  Maujer,  the  minister;  you 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

can  tell  him  why  this  haste,  and  immediately 
after  the — the  ceremony — I  shall  leave  this  house 
forever." 

"You  shall  not  go  out  in  this  storm  to-night, 
Jim;  you  must  not." 

"I  shall — at  once.  I  will  bring  Mr.  Maujer 
here  as  fast  as  the  team  will  carry  us.  And  then- 
then  I  shall  go  away  without  saying  good-bye 
to  any  one  but  you  and  your  wife  and  daughter — 
forever." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  toward  the 
kitchen,  where  hung  his  hat  and  stormcoat. 
He  glanced  back  as  he  stood  at  the  door,  and  saw 
the  good  doctor  fall  upon  his  knees,  his  frame 
shaking  convulsively,  his  hands  uplifted  to  heaven, 
and  heard  him  cry  out: 

"Heavenly  Father,  pity  me!  Pity  me!  Pity 
us  all!" 

And  I,  the  old  family  clock,  ticked  on. 


TICK  THE  THIRTEENTH 

CRASH  followed  crash,  the  distant  mountains 
sending  back  the  reverberations  as  if  they  were 
loth  to  take  responsibility  for  the  awfulness  of  the 
storm  and  wished  to  return  the  thunderous  noises 
whence  they  came. 

Jim  Carbon  stood  for  an  instant  at  the  kitchen 
door  and  watched  the  blazing  of  the  trail  of  the 
lightning.  There  was  scarcely  any  intermission 
between  the  flashes  of  light,  and  the  very  heavens 
seemed  to  be  weeping  in  unison  with  those  in 
that  household  that  night. 

The  good  doctor,  after  a  few  moments  of 
silent  communion  with  his  God,  arose  and  went 
up  to  his  daughter's  room.  Myra,  in  the  interval 
of  her  father's  absence,  had  tossed  in  half  con 
scious,  half  delirious  unrest.  She  had  heard 
Carbon  close  the  kitchen  door  and  had  heard 
his  footsteps  upon  the  gravel  walk  leading  from 
the  house  to  the  barn.  She  turned  wearily  to 
Mary,  who  had  been  keeping  vigil  by  her  side 
during  the  absence  of  Dr.  Boosch,  and  asked: 

"Mary,  who  is  going  out  on  such  a  night  as 
this,  and  at  such  an  hour  ?  Surely,  there  must 

91 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

be  some  urgent  mission  to  take  any  one  out  to 
night,  Mary.  Has  anything,  happened  ?  Have 
they  come  to  take  Richard  away  ?" 

"Miss  Boosch,"  replied  Mary,  glancing  out 
of  the  window  and  discerning  the  tall,  masculine 
figure  that  she  had  learned  to  know — yes,  and  to 
love — so  well,  "they  took  Mr.  Broakley  away 
yesterday  afternoon.  He  is  home  with  his  parents 
now. ' ' 

"Home  with  his  parents?  Home  with  his 
parents  ?  Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  why  did  they  take 
him  away  ?  Why  didn't  they  let  me  see  him  ? 
Why  didn't  they  let  me  put  my  arms  around  his 
neck  and  kiss  him  good-bye  ?  Let  me  go  to  him — 
let  me  join  him  in  heaven — let  me  see  his  face 
again!  Mary,  Mary,  my  heart  is  breaking — 
is  breaking — 

She  had  half  arisen  in  her  supplication.  The 
wounded  and  crushed  spirit  fell  back  upon  the 
pillow.  Mary  brushed  back  the  disheveled  hair 
from  that  handsome  face,  now  seemingly  of  marble, 
and  smoothed  out  the  bed  covers.  She  saw  that 
unconsciousness  had  again  given  relief  to  the 
unbearable  wound  that  had  been  inflicted  upon 
that  tender  heart  beating  so  erratically — now 
slow  and  regular,  as  if  she  were  roaming  with 
the  light  of  her  life  on  the  mountain  side;  then 
beating  faster  and  faster,  until  it  seemed  as  if 

92 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

every   nerve   in   that   body   must   snap   asunder. 

Mary  turned  again  to  the  window  and  saw 
Carbon,  lantern  hanging  on  arm,  hitching  up  the 
team  to  the  covered  carriage  that  the  doctor  used 
in  his  professional  visits.  What  was  going  on, 
she  wondered.  Was  the  doctor  going  down  to 
see  Carbon  off?  Why  should  he  leave  so  sud 
denly  ?  Why  this  mystery  ?  She  watched  Jim 
hurriedly  hitching  up  as  if  his  life  depended  on  it — 
she  watched  him  as  he  turned  his  face  to  the  storm 
mercilessly  beating  down  upon  him.  My,  she 
thought,  what  a  night  for  any  human  being  to  be 
out  in — above  all,  Jim  Carbon,  for  whose  safety 
she  uttered  a  silent  prayer. 

She  glanced  around  at  the  listless  form  in 
the  white-covered  bed.  Then  she  again  glanced 
out  of  the  window  at  Carbon,  just  as  he  drove 
out  of  the  gateway,  his  lantern  hanging  beside 
his  head  and  emblazoning  his  ruddy  face  upon 
her  memory  with  that  last  look  she  had  of  him. 
Then  she  turned  to  the  bed  again,  and  throwing 
her  arms  about  the  unconscious  Myra,  exclaimed 
sorrowfully,  bitterly: 

"Miss  Myra,  your  love  is  dead.  And  my 
love — my  love,  is  dead  to  me,  too,  and  gone 
forever!" 

Tears — the  outlet  for  woman's  grief,  always — 
flowed  upon  the  coverlet.  Silently,  softly,  was 

93 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Mary   weeping   when   the   doctor   re-entered   the 
room. 

"Why,  Mary,  what  is  the  matter?"  inquired 
the  doctor,  somewhat  startled.  He  was  alarmed- 
he  feared  that  his  daughter  might  have  become 
delirious  and  have  betrayed  to  Mary  Lash  what 
he  would  not  have  her  know  for  all  the  world. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,  Dr.  Boosch,"  Mary 
replied;  "nothing  is  the  matter,  only  it  grieves  me 
to  see  Miss  Myra  suffer  so." 

"Mary,  you  must  be  worn  out.  I  should  advise 
your  going  to  bed  at  once.  I  shall  not  require 
anything  more  to-night.  Oh,  Mary,  before  you 
go  I  wish  you  would  step  into  Mrs.  Boosch's 
room  and  tell  her  that  I  would  like  to  see  her 
here — in  Myra's  room.  She  has  undoubtedly 
retired,  but  tell  her  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  her  here." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Mary,  as  she  softly  closed 
the  door.  She  went  to  the  room  of  Myra's  mother 
and  gently  aroused  her. 

"Mrs.  Boosch,  the  doctor  asked  me  to  tell  you 
to  step  into  Miss  Myra's  room  at  once.  He  wishes 
to  speak  to  you  there." 

"Why,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Boosch,  startled  by 
the  sudden  awakening,  "Myra  is  not  worse,  is 
she  ?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  She  appears  to  be  about 
the  same.  But  evidently  there  is  something 

94 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

on  the  doctor's  mind.  Jim  Carbon  has  just 
driven  off  with  the  two-horse  rig,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  in  great  haste,  too." 

"What,  out  on  such  a  night  as  this?  What 
can  be  the  matter,  I  wonder  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Boosch.  Everything 
seems  to  have  gone  wrong  since  Mr.  Broakley's 
death — everything. " 

"Well,  Mary,  it  seems  that  such  things  must 
be — it  is  not  for  us  to  try  to  divine  the  ways  of 
Providence.  I  will  go  to  Myra's  room  in  a  mo 
ment.  Good-night,  Mary;  get  a  good  night's 
rest,  for  you  certainly  need  it." 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Boosch.  I  hope  that  all 
will  turn  out  right  and  that  we  will  be  happy 
again — some  day." 

Mary  went  upstairs  to  her  room  and  seated 
herself  upon  the  edge  of  her  bed.  The  candle 
that  she  placed  on  the  little  dressing-table  flickered 
and  seemed  to  want  to  go  out,  as  if  it  knew  that 
Mary  needed  it  no  more  that  night  But  Mary 
sat  there  for  a  long,  long  time — she  knew  not 
how  long — thinking  of  the  events  of  the  past 
twenty-four  hours.  She  could  not  fathom — she 
could  not  understand — the  mystery  of  Jim  Carbon's 
leaving  that  house  so  suddenly.  What  had  Richard 
Broakley's  death  to  do  with  him,  that  he  should 
go  away — forever  ?  Why  did  he  drive  away  so 

95 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

suddenly  ?     Would    he    ever  come   back    again  ? 

These  and  a  thousand  more  queries  arose  in 
her  mind.  Finally,  tired  nature  overcame  her 
and  she  dropped  back  upon  the  bed  and  fell 
into  a  fitful,  troubled  sleep.  The  candle  flickered 
on,  until  its  life  ebbed  out  and  left  the  room  in 
darkness  save  for  the  intermittent  illumination 
made  by  the  flashes  of  lightning.  The  storm  still 
continued  to  rage  fiercely— there  was  no  abatement, 
apparently,  either  in  the  thunderous  rolls  or  in 
the  incessant  downpour  of  water. 

Mrs.  Boosch  went  to  her  daughter's  room. 
Her  soft  eyes  looked  at  the  doctor's  worn,  haggard 
face.  She,  too,  had  aged  in  the  past  few  hours — 
what  mother  would  not  age  under  the  mental 
shock  that  she  had  received  ? 

"Mother,"  said  Dr.  Boosch — he  had  called 
her  "mother"  ever  since  the  birth  of  their  son, 
their  first-born— "I  would  not  have  disturbed 
you  were  it  not  for  a  matter  that  concerns  us  all. 
I  did  not  wish  to  leave  Myra  alone,  else  I  should 
have  gone  to  you.  Mother,  I  sent  for  you  that  I 
might  tell  you  in  the  presence  of  our  Myra  that 
Jim  Carbon  is  going  to  marry  her." 

"  Marry  her — marry  Myra  ?  Jim  Carbon,  the 
hired  man — marry  our  Myra  ?  Henry,  do  I 
understand  you  aright  ?  Jim  Carbon,  the  hired 
man,  marry — marry — our  Myra  ?" 

96 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,  mother,  you  understand  me  correctly. 
Yes,  Jim  Carbon — hired  man  he  was,  but  will 
be  no  more — for  he  is  going  away.  He  may  have 
been  only  a  hired  man,  but  the  heart  that  beats 
in  that  man's  body  is  worthy  of  our  Myra — or 
of  any  woman  that  lives.  Mother,  wait  until 
Myra  awakens  and  then  I  will  tell  you  what  has 
just  taken  place  between  Carbon  and  myself, 
and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  agree  with  me  that  it 
will  be  for  the  best." 

Ever  trusting  in  her  husband's  superior  wisdom, 
Mrs.  Boosch  placed  her  hands  in  his  and  looked 
up  into  those  kindly  eyes  beaming  down  upon  her 
with  the  love  that  had  ripened  and  mellowed  with 
twenty-five  years  of  companionship. 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  continued,  "I  have  prayed 
long  and  earnestly  that  the  Almighty  might  show 
us  a  pathway  leading  from  the  darkness  that  has 
overcome  us  all  into  the  light.  And  He  has. 
He  has  sent  one  of  His  disciples — plain  Jim 
Carbon,  the  hired  man — to  lead  us  into  that 
pathway,  mother.  May  He  bless  every  footstep 
of  that  young  man's  life — no  matter  where  he 
may  go — no  matter  what  he  may  undertake — 
that  is  my  prayerful  wish." 

Myra  at  this  moment  opened  her  eyes,  lan 
guidly,  as  if  she  had  awakened  from  a  troubled 
dream.  Her  eyes  looked  inquiringly  at  her 

7  97 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

mother.  She  wondered  why  she  was  up  so  late. 
The  storm,  she  supposed,  as  a  crash  echoed  and 
re-echoed  over  the  hills,  had  frightened  her  and 
she  wished  to  be  near  her  protector  in  all  of  life's 
storms. 

"Myra,"  said  her  father,  "I  have  something 
to  tell  you — something  that  you  must  listen  to 
with  patience — you  must  forget  the  past — you 
must  think  of  the  future.  And  what  I  am  about 
to  say  means  so  much  to  your  future — to  our 
future — that  I  am  sure  you  will  see  that  it  should 
be  done — and  at  once." 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?  You  know  how  I  love 
you,  father,  and  how  much  I  need  your  help  and 
counsel  now.  What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ? 
Have  you  ever  commanded  me  that  I  have  not 
obeyed  ?" 

"No,  my  child,  never.  But  this  is  not  a  com 
mand.  It  is  a  matter  that  is  left  with  yourself 
and  your  God." 

He  then  went  into  a  detailed  account  of  his 
conversation  with  Carbon,  omitting  nothing  what 
ever.  Myra  listened  attentively — she  did  not 
exhibit  the  spirit  of  revulsion  that  her  father  had 
half  expected — and  when  he  had  finished,  with 
the  remark  that  he  looked  for  Jim's  return  in  a 
very  short  while  with  Mr.  Maujer,  she  turned 
wearily  toward  his  anxious  face  bending  over  her, 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

reached  up  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
kissed  him  fervently,  and  said : 

"Father,  father — my  father — it  shall  be  so! 
Mother,  mother — my  mother — it  shall  be  so! 
You  still  love  your  daughter,  do  you  not — mother, 
father  ?" 

Those  two  bent  over  their  child  and  each 
imprinted  a  kiss  that  assured  her  that  she  would 
never  lose  their  parental  love — through  storm 
and  sunshine,  through  darkness  and  light,  that 
love  would  be  with  her  forever — yes,  and  for  aye. 


99 


TICK  THE  FOURTEENTH 

CARBON,  driving  the  team  through  the  storm 
that  night — the  team  that  knew  his  guiding  hand 
so  well  that  they  needed  no  urging — saw  nothing 
ahead  of  him  but  the  muddy,  heavy  road,  now 
dark  as  pitch  and  again  almost  as  light  as  day. 
He  had  been  out  in  storms  before,  but  he  could 
not  recall  any  like  this.  With  the  flashes  of  light 
ning  making  visible  the  heavy,  angry  clouds, 
rolling  like  banks  of  black  smoke,  there  came 
peal  upon  peal  of  thunder — scarcely  had  one  died 
away  in  the  distant  mountains,  to  be  thrown 
back  again,  than  it  was  followed  by  another. 

Truly,  Carbon  thought  to  himself,  the  elements 
were  at  war  with  themselves.  He  kept  steadily 
on,  until  the  beckoning  colored  lights  of  the 
railroad  crossing  assured  him  that  he  was  within 
the  limits  of  the  town  and  that  a  few  minutes 
would  bring  him  to  the  parsonage  of  the  Rev. 
David  Maujer.  His  team  was  panting  and 
sweating  when  he  drove  up  to  the  door. 

The  town  clock  had  just  tolled  in  monotone 
the  hour  of  twelve  as  he  jumped  out  of  the  carriage 
and  sprang  up  the  steps.  He  rang  the  bell 

100 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

several  times,  as  he  felt  that  it  would  require 
some  time  to  make  the  inmates  hear  in  the  noise 
of  that  storm.  There  was  no  need  for  that, 
however,  as  the  second  jingle  had  scarcely  died 
out  when  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Maujer,  in 
dressing-gown,  peered  out  at  Jim. 

"Mr.  Maujer,"  said  Carbon,  "can  you  come 
with  me  at  once  ?" 

"Who  are  you?  I  cannot  distinguish  your 
face  here.  Oh,  yes,  I  recognize  the  voice  now — 
you  are  Jim  Carbon.  What  is  the  trouble  ? 
I  hope  that  nothing  serious  has  happened.  Won't 
you  step  in  ?  Certainly  I  will  go  with  you — at  once. 
My  calling  does  not  permit  of  hesitation  where 
duty  calls,  you  know,  Jim,  and  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  be  out  in  a  storm  such  as  this  were  your 
mission  not  urgent.  However,  you  can  explain 
to  me  when  we  are  on  the  way.  I  will  be  ready 
in  a  minute  or  more.  Won't  you  come  in  ?" 

"No,  thank  you;  my  horses  are  heated  by  the 
fast  driving  I  have  been  doing,  and  I  had  better 
put  blankets  on  them,  for  this  rain  is  chilling. 
I  will  wait  outside." 

Jim  Carbon,  thoughtful  even  for  the  animals, 
carefully  blanketed  the  horses,  spoke  a  word  to 
them — "Good  boy,  Tom;  good  girl,  Jennie" — 
petted  them  and  jumped  into  the  carriage  and 
awaited  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Maujer. 

IOI 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Now,  sir,  I  am  with  you,"  cheerily  called  out 
the  minister,  in  an  incredibly  short  time.  "I 
didn't  keep  you  waiting  long,  did  I  ?" 

"No,  indeed.  I  wonder  how  you  could  have 
dressed  so  quickly.  You  certainly  have  established 
a  record  in  my  mind  for  rapid  preparation.  This 
side,  sir,  where  you  won't  get  the  benefit  of  so 
much  of  the  storm.  You  see,  I  have  provided 
all  the  protection  that  was  possible,  but  we  can't 
expect  to  escape  it  all." 

"My,  but  what  a  night  this  is!  It  is  about  the 
worst  I  have  seen  in  many  years.  How  are  all 
the  folks  up  at  the  farm  ?"  Mr.  Maujer  asked, 
as  he  swung  lightly  into  the  carriage  and  covered 
himself  with  the  blankets  and  drew  down  the 
curtain  that  Carbon  had  improvised  for  stormy 
weather. 

Jim  removed  the  covering  from  the  horses, 
threw  them  under  the  seat,  jumped  in,  and  with  a 
"G'lang,  Tom;  g'lang,  Jennie,"  answered: 

"Pretty  well,  sir;  all  but  Miss  Myra.  I  under 
stand  that  she  takes  the  death  of  Mr.  Broakley 
very  much  to  heart — so  much  so  that  her  father 
has  been  by  her  bedside  almost  constantly  since 
she  learned  the  awful  news." 

"Yes,  that  was  a  sad  accident,  Jim — a  sad 
accident.  I  was  at  Broakleys'  last  night  and  gave 
them  what  little  spiritual  consolation  was  in  my 

102 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

power.  My  heart  bleeds  for  them.  Their  only 
son,  their  only  child — who  of  us  can  feel  what  such 
a  loss  must  mean  to  them  ?" 

"Mr.  Maujer,"  said  Carbon,  when  they  had 
fairly  started,  "I  will  not  say  just  now  why  I  have 
come  for  you — I  think  perhaps  it  would  be  better 
if  Dr.  Boosch  explained  to  you  personally — you 
won't  feel  hurt,  will  you  ?" 

"My  good  man,"  returned  the  minister,  "what 
ever  duty  I  may  be  called  upon  to  perform  will 
be  done  with  gratitude  for  the  many  kindnesses 
I  have  received  from  Dr.  Boosch.  I  owe  him  much, 
Jim,  for  he  has  been  my  adviser  and  friend  ever 
since  my  boyhood — yes,  I  owe  him  much." 

And  truth  it  was — that  he  owed  much  to  the 
doctor.  For  when  David  Maujer  was  a  boy  he 
was  a  wayward  one.  Many  and  many  were  the 
complaints  that  were  made  against  him — com 
plaints  that  ran  from  boyish  pranks  until  they 
finally  culminated  in  robbery — the  robbery  of 
Vender's  grocery  store.  One  morning  when  Peter 
Vender  opened  his  store  he  found  that  some 
one  had  broken  into  it  and  had  rifled  the  cash 
drawer  of  its  contents — not  much,  it  is  true,  only 
thirteen  dollars  and  some  odd  cents — but  robbery 
is  robbery,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  whether  the  sum 
be  large  or  small.  Suspicion  at  once  fell  upon 
David  and  two  companions — evil  companions, 

103 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

such  as  will  lead  a  good  boy  astray,  sometimes— 
and  under  repeated  and  rigid  questioning  he  had 
finally  confessed  his  guilt. 

David's  father  had  been  bedridden  for  years, 
and  as  a  consequence  the  bringing  up  of  the  lad 
devolved  upon  his  mother — herself  more  or  less 
sickly  and  unable  to  devote  much  attention  to 
him,  as  she  had  three  other  children,  younger 
than  he.  And  so  it  was  that  David,  practically 
left  to  his  own  resources,  had  drifted  from  bad 
to  worse,  until  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  stood 
charged  with  the  crime  of  robbery. 

Then  it  was  that  the  good  doctor,  who  had 
taken  a  liking  to  the  boy,  notwithstanding  his 
waywardness,  had  stepped  into  the  father's  place 
and  gone  to  the  town  jail  and  prayed  with  David 
and  importuned  him  to  break  away  from  his  evil 
companions  and  ways — prayed  with  him  until 
the  boy  had  burst  into  tears  and  had  dropped 
upon  his  knees  and  begged  the  good  man  to  help 
him  in  this,  his  hour  of  spiritual  need. 

Peter  Vender  was  an  honest  man — as  honest 
in  his  business  dealings  as  in  his  home  life.  He 
was  a  Christian  man — was  Mr.  Vender — but 
hard  and  inflexible,  like  so  many  Christian  men 
who  cannot  understand  that  we  are  all  prone  to 
err  and  sin,  and  that  He  who  died  that  we  might 
be  saved  was  forgiving  and  loving  and  gentle 

104 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  those  who  had  sinned.  Dr.  Boosch  had  gone 
to  him  and  pleaded  and  begged  him  to  withdraw 
the  charge  against  David,  urging  the  condition 
of  his  father  and  the  helplessness  of  his  mother  as 
in  a  measure  responsible  for  the  boy's  waywardness. 

But  Peter  Vender  could  only  understand  that 
robbery  was  a  crime,  and  there  could  be  no 
extenuation  for  any  crime,  in  his  mind.  Dr. 
Boosch  had  said  to  him: 

"Mr.  Vender,  can  you  not  feel  for  the  father 
and  mother  ?  Can  you  not  put  yourself  in  the  place 
of  those  parents  ?  Imagine  them,  loving  their 
boy  as  much  as  you  do  your  children,  Mr.  Vender, 
parting  with  him  now — now,  when  they  need  his 
help  and  comfort,  for  such  he  will  be  to  them 
in  the  future,  I  feel  sure.  David  has  promised 
me  to  mend  his  ways  and  become  a  good  Christian 
boy,  and  I  believe  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
that  he  means  to  do  so.  Give  him  another 
chance,  Mr.  Vender,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
never  regret  it." 

"Doctor  Boosch,"  Vender  had  replied,  "I 
am  a  man  of  business.  Everybody  knows  I 
am  honest — have  been  and  always  will  be.  If 
I  should  let  pass  any  such  crime  as  this  boy  has 
committed  it  would  lead  others  on,  for  only  the 
fear  of  punishment  deters  some  persons  in  this 
world  from  committing  crime.  No,  sir,  I  cannot 

105 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

overlook  it.  This  boy  must  be  punished  as  he 
should  be  that  others  may  profit  by  the  example 
made  of  him  and  lead  honest  lives." 

Again  and  again  had  the  doctor  renewed  his 
pleading,  but  all  in  vain.  Mr.  Vender  was 
obdurate,  and  finally  Dr.  Boosch  had  given  up 
the  task  of  endeavoring  to  break  that  iron  will. 
He  had  then  gone  to  Justice  Eilen's  house  and 
had  pleaded  so  long,  so  earnestly,  that  finally 
the  justice  had  weakened,  and  said  to  him: 

"Dr.  Boosch,  I  cannot  refute  your  arguments — it 
is  true,  the  boy  will  not  become  any  better  in  the 
reformatory.  I  cannot,  however,  do  anything 
but  find  him  guilty — that  will  always  hang  over 
his  head — I  cannot  do  otherwise,  for  he  has  con 
fessed  that  he  committed  the  robbery.  But  I 
will  suspend  sentence — and  may  he  prove  worthy 
of  the  confidence  you  have  in  him.  Few  boys 
in  trouble  have  such  a  friend  as  you,  Doctor." 

And  from  the  day  of  his  trial  David  Maujer 
had  led  a  different  life,  guided  by  the  help,  the 
advice,  the  counsel  of  his  honored  friend.  From 
a  wayward  boy  he  had  grown  to  be  a  man  who 
loved  the  word  of  the  Master,  and  eventually 
had  become  a  minister  of  the  Gospel.  How 
different  might  have  been  his  life  had  he  been 
thrown  into  association  with  the  viciously  inclined 
inmates  of  the  reformatory! 

1 06 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

All  this  had  happened  seventeen  years  ago, 
and  as  the  recurring  past  flitted  through  his  mind, 
Mr.  Maujer  felt  that  he  did,  indeed,  owe  much 
to  the  good  doctor. 

Jim  Carbon  wondered  why  Mr.  Maujer  had 
remained  silent.  He,  too,  was  in  deep  thought, 
and  before  the  pair  were  aware  of  it  the  horses 
were  turning  into  the  lane  leading  from  the  main 
road  to  the  homestead  of  the  doctor. 

"Why,  Jim,  we  certainly  did  clip  along,  didn't 
we  ?  I  had  no  idea  that  we  were  so  near  the 
house,"  said  Mr.  Maujer,  turning  to  Jim,  who, 
aroused  from  his  reveries,  was  also  surprised  at 
the  short  time  it  took  them  to  make  the  trip  back. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  said  Jim,  as  they  drove 
up  to  the  door.  "  I  will  put  up  the  team  at  once, 
for  they  have  done  a  good  night's  work  and 
certainly  need  the  rest  they  are  entitled  to." 

The  minister  rang  the  bell,  which  was  instantly 
answered  by  Dr.  Boosch,  who  warmly  greeted 
his  visitor,  and  I,  the  old  family  clock,  who  wit 
nessed  the  greeting,  can  assure  you  that  the 
warmth  of  the  minister's  response  was  enough 
to  make  any  one  feel  that  those  men  were  very, 
very  dear  friends  indeed. 


107 


TICK  THE  FIFTEENTH 

"HANG  YOUR  stormcoat  and  hat  on  that  rack, 
there,  David.  And  then  I  wish  you  would  step 
up  to  Myra's  room  with  me,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Myra  ?  There  is  nothing  serious  the  matter 
with  her,  I  hope,"  replied  the  minister. 

"No;  but  there  is  a  matter  about  which  we  are 
going  to  hold  a  family  council.  Mrs.  Boosch 
is  up  there,  also.  Arthur,  you  know,  has  been 
away,  traveling  on  business  for  his  firm,  and  we 
do  not  expect  him  home  for  several  weeks." 

"Yes,  I  heard  Arthur  was  away.  I  saw  Rich 
ard's  father  and  mother  yesterday.  The  funeral 
service  is  to  be  held  this  afternoon  at  three 
o'clock.  Will  you  be  able  to  attend  ?" 

"No,  I  will  not  be  able  to  go.  Myra  is  in  such 
condition  that  I  would  not  dare  leave  her;  it  would 
be  too  great  a  risk  just  now.  Mrs.  Boosch  will 
go,  however,  as  one  of  our  family  should  be  present. 
I  would  much  rather  she  would  not,  for  the  death 
of  Richard  means  much  to  us,  also,  Mr.  Maujer, 
and  I  am  afraid  she  might  break  down.  But,  as 
I  say,  one  of  our  family  should  be  present.  Come, 
let  us  go  upstairs." 

108 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

My  hands  pointed  to  a  quarter  past  the  hour 
of  one  as  Dr.  Boosch  looked  inquiringly  at  me. 
My,  how  the  lines  were  drawn  on  that  face, 
always  so  radiant  and  benignant!  How  dimmed 
the  eyes  seemed  to  me,  so  accustomed  to  see  them 
sparkle  as  he  looked  up  at  me  when  he  started 
out  on  his  professional  rounds  and  asked  of  me, 
"Well,  Mr.  Clock,  what  good  word  will  I  bring 
home  to-day,  eh  ?" 

Entering  Myra's  room  the  minister  was  trying 
to  conjure  up  in  his  mind  why  he  had  been  sent 
for  so  hastily.  He  had  gotten  the  impression 
that  some  one — he  knew  not  whom — had  been 
suddenly  stricken  and  needed  his  spiritual  con 
solation.  He  had  come  prepared,  mentally,  to 
administer  the  last  rites  to  some  one.  But  Myra, 
suffering  from  the  shock  of  Richard's  death, 
appeared  to  be  in  no  imminent  danger,  and  her 
mother,  though  the  lines  of  care  were  upon  her 
brow,  appeared  to  be  enjoying  good  health. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Boosch  ?  And  how  are 
you,  Myra  ?"  he  said,  cordially  shaking  each  by 
the  hand. 

"We  are  fairly  well,"  answered  the  doctor's 
wife;  "fairly  well,  all  things  considered." 

"Now,  Doctor,"  said  Mr.  Maujer,  turning  to 
him,  "what  can  I  do  for  you?  What  help  can 
I  give  you  ?" 

109 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"David" — the  doctor  spoke  now  as  he  did  in 
the  days  gone  by  when  he  had  counseled  him  from 
evil  companionship  and  had  led  him  into  the 
paths  of  righteousness — "David,  you  have  been 
called  here  on  a  mission  of  mercy — on  a  mission 
—I  hardly  know  how  to  begin  to  tell  you." 

"Dr.  Boosch,"  replied  the  minister,  "friend, 
counselor,  adviser  of  my  youth,  tell  me  what  is  in 
your  heart.  Don't  you  know  that  I  would  give 
up  my  life  to  serve  you  ?  Do  you  think  for  a 
moment  that  I  have  forgotten  what  I  owe  to  you 
— do  you  think  that  a  boy  snatched  from  a  life 
of  crime  like  a  brand  from  the  fire  can  ever  forget 
his  obligation  to  the  man  who  had  saved  him  from 
a  life  such  as  he  was  leading  ?  Mrs.  Boosch, 
Myra,"  he  continued,  turning  to  each  appealingly, 
"let  me  assure  you  that  whatever  is  asked  of  me 
will  be  granted — yes,  from  the  very  bottom  of 
my  heart." 

The  good  doctor  then  told  him,  from  the  very 
beginning,  how  Richard  had  fallen  in  love  with 
his  daughter,  of  their  courtship,  of  their  looking 
forward  to  an  early  marriage,  of  the  death  of  his 
aunt,  with  the  stipulation  in  her  will  as  to  his 
age  before  marrying,  and  then — of  the  accident 
that  had  befallen  him  and  the  revelation  that 
had  been  made  by  Myra  in  her  delirium. 

Continuing  before  his  wife  and  daughter,  the 

no 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

man  of  God  listening  intently,  Dr.  Boosch  told 
of  Carbon's  self-sacrificing  offer  to  marry  Myra 
for  the  sake  of  saving  the  name  and  honor  of  the 
Boosch  family.  He  dwelt  long  and  earnestly 
upon  the  goodness  of  Jim  Carbon,  vowing  that 
such  a  man  as  that  would  surely  get  his  reward, 
and  that  he  wished  for  him,  wherever  Fate  might 
lead  him,  all  the  good  that  might  be  bestowed 
upon  living  mortal. 

Jim  Carbon  had  taken  plenty  of  time  putting 
up  the  horses  for  the  night.  He  wished  to  give 
the  doctor  ample  opportunity  to  explain  why  he 
had  so  hastily  summoned  the  minister.  He  did 
not  wish  to  be  present  during  that  explanation. 
He  wished  to  avoid,  as  much  as  possible,  any 
show  of  gratitude  on  the  part  of  the  good  doctor 
and  his  wife. 

Furthermore,  he  wished  for  time  to  think  of 
what  he  would  do  when  he  left  the  house — where 
he  was  to  go.  Although  he  had  given  considerable 
thought  to  the  matter  the  day  before,  he  was  still 
undecided  where  to  go.  And  even  now  he  could 
arrive  at  no  decision,  further  than  that  he  would 
go  out  West,  somewhere.  He  returned  to  the 
house,  the  rain  still  pouring  down  in  torrents, 
unlocked  the  front  door,  hung  his  stormcoat  on 
the  rack,  and,  hat  in  hand,  went  up  the  stairs 
to  Myra's  room. 

in 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Ah,  Jim  Carbon,  I  did  not  know  that  I  would 
ever  see  you  again — ever  again  hear  that  honest, 
manly  voice  of  yours — ever  again  see  those  gray 
eyes  of  yours  looking  wistfully  at  Miss  Myra 
through  the  front-door  glass  as  she  tripped  gaily 
along  the  road  with  her  Richard.  I  felt  as  if  a 
part  of  my  being  went  out  when  you  went  out  that 
night,  Jim  Carbon,  for  I  knew  you  loved  her  and 
worshipped  her. 

As  Carbon  entered  the  room  he  saw  a  picture 
such  as  he  never  forgot  to  his  dying  day.  There 
was  Myra,  lying  on  the  pure  white  bed,  her  head 
imbedded  in  the  pillow,  her  hands  clasped  to 
gether  in  prayer  on  the  immaculate  spread,  her 
beautiful  face  ashen  white;  there  was  Dr.  Boosch, 
on  his  knees,  beside  her,  head  bowed  down, 
and  hands  also  clasped  in  prayer;  beside  him  his 
good  wife,  weeping  softly,  the  tears  falling  upon 
the  coverlet;  the  expounder  of  His  word  had 
just  gone  down  upon  his  knees  and  said  "Let 
us  pray"  as  Jim  stood  for  a  second  by  the  door. 

Carbon  dropped  upon  his  knees,  also,  clasping 
his  hands  on  a  chair — her  chair,  so  delicate,  so 
frail  that  Jim  scarcely  rested  his  hands  on  it, 
lest  he  might  break  it  by  the  pressure  of  his  strong, 
muscular  arms. 

Oh,  the  solemnity  of  that  scene — the  fervency 
of  the  prayer  of  the  man  of  God  and  the  "Amen!" 

112 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  "Again  amen!"  uttered  by  his  hearers! 
Little  wonder  that  it  impressed  itself  so  forcibly 
upon  the  memory  of  Carbon.  Little  wonder 
that  those  present  often  thought  of  it  in  after 
years,  when  the  clouds  had  been  dispelled  and 
sunshine  again  reigned  in  that  abode.  Little 
wonder,  I  say,  that  Myra  often  repeated  the  prayer 
of  the  good  man  so  earnestly  pleading  with  his 
Master  for  the  welfare  of  that  little  circle  of  gropers 
in  the  dark  seeking  the  light. 

Long  and  earnestly  the  minister  prayed.  Long 
and  earnestly  he  pleaded  with  the  Almighty 
to  forgive  his  sins  and  trespasses — to  forgive  the 
sins  and  trespasses  of  those  present.  Fervently 
did  he  pray  for  the  daughter  lying  there  and  the 
man  who  was  about  to  wed  her.  The  words  welled 
up  from  his  heart,  and  at  times  his  voice  became 
faint  with  emotion.  Every  word  he  uttered  was 
sincere,  heartfelt,  honest.  And  when  he  had 
concluded — "We  ask  this  in  the  name  of  Christ, 
our  Redeemer.  Amen!" — the  responsive  "And 
again,  amen!"  came  from  that  little  band  in 
unison  as  they  arose. 

"James  Carbon,"  said  the  minister,  "Dr. 
Boosch  has  explained  all  to  me.  Are  you  still 
resolved  upon  keeping  your  promise  ?" 

"I  am,  indeed,  sir,"  came  from  Jim,  without 
hesitation. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Very  well;  I  will,  with  the  consent  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Boosch  and  Miss  Myra,  perform  the 
ceremony.  Have  you  a  ring,  James  Carbon  ?" 

"Yes,  sir — my  mother's.     Here  it  is." 

Myra,  turning  uneasily  in  her  bed,  glanced  up 
and  saw  Carbon's  eyes  resting  upon  her.  There 
was  nothing  in  his  glance  that  would  betray  his 
love  for  her — nothing  that  would  make  her  feel 
that  there  was  one  who  would  give  his  very  life 
could  he  but  fill  the  void  made  in  her  heart  by 
the  death  of  Richard  Broakley.  He  had  steeled 
himself — yes,  steeled  himself — that  she  might 
never  know  of  his  love  for  her.  She  would  still 
think  that  Richard's  was  the  only  love  she  had 
ever  won. 

Bidding  them  join  hands — how  it  thrilled  him 
to  hold  that  little  hand  of  hers  in  his,  so  big  and 
broad  and  muscular! — Mr.  Maujer  then  began  to 
read  the  impressive  service. 

How  different  it  all  was,  flashed  through  Myra's 
mind — how  different  from  the  elaborate  wedding 
she  and  her  Richard  had  pictured,  with  its  gaiety 
and  joy,  with  its  flowers  and  bridesmaids  and 
bridegroom — how  different,  with  this  man  beside 
her  for  whom  she  had  no  love,  from  what  it  would 
have  been  if  that  were  Richard  standing  there — 
how  different — 

She    could     no    longer    control     herself.     She 

114 


Carbon  drew  himself  erect,  as  if  he  would  check  any  possible  weakness 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

burst  into  hysterical  sobs.  And  it  was  thus  when 
the  minister,  bidding  Carbon  slip  the  ring — his 
mother's  ring — upon  her  ringer,  pronounced  them 
man  and  wife. 

"That  which  God  hath  joined  together  let 
not  man  put  asunder!" 

As  the  minister  uttered  this  Jim  turned  to  Mrs. 
Boosch,  now  silently  weeping,  extended  his  hand, 
and  said: 

"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Boosch;  let  me  thank  you— 
let  me  thank  you  all — for  the  many  kindnesses 
you  have  shown  me;  good-bye,  Dr.  Boosch; 
good-bye,  Mr.  Maujer — God  bless  you  all." 

He  turned,  took  up  his  hat,  and  started  for  the 
door.  Myra — his  wife — had  swooned.  He  went 
back,  took  up  the  little  hand  he  had  held  but  a 
moment  ago,  and  fervently  kissed  it,  saying  "  Good 
bye" — nothing  more. 

Then,  as  if  fearing  that  he  might  weaken  in 
his  resolution,  Carbon  drew  himself  erect,  as  if 
he  would  check  any  possible  weakness,  and  again 
started  for  the  door.  As  he  went  out  he  heard 
Dr.  Boosch  call  out: 

"Don't  go,  Jim  Carbon;  don't  go  just  yet." 

But  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  call.  He  walked 
hastily — firmly  and  stolidly — down  the  stairs  and 
out  into  the  night — that  night,  with  that  awful 
storm  still  raging.  Nothing  did  he  take  with 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

him,  and  it  was  only  after  the  door  had  closed 
and  the  spring  lock  had  shut  him  out  that  he  was 
aware  of  the  fact  that  he  had  not  taken  even  his 
stormcoat  with  him. 

Dr.  Boosch  and  the  minister  hastened  to  recall 
him.  They  went  up  to  his  room,  thinking  he 
had  gone  there  to  make  preparations  for  his 
departure,  little  dreaming  that  he  would  go  away 
without  taking  anything  whatever  with  him. 
But  he  was  not  there.  They  looked  about — 
all  his  belongings  were  still  in  the  room. 

On  his  table  lay  his  Bible,  with  its  inscription 
"From  Mother  to  James."  Going  over  to  it 
the  minister  saw  that  it  was  open.  A  pencil 
mark  had  been  drawn  around  Timothy  iv.  5-8, 
and  calling  Dr.  Boosch  Mr.  Maujer  read: 

"  *  But  watch  thou  in  all  things,  endure  afflictions, 
do  the  work  of  an  evangelist,  make  full  proof  of 
thy  ministry. 

"  *  For  I  am  now  ready  to  be  offered,  and  the 
time  of  my  departure  is  at  hand. 

"  *  I  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my 
course,  I  have  kept  the  faith. 

"  *  Henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown 
of  righteousness,  which  the  Lord,  the  righteous 
Judge,  shall  give  me  on  that  day:  and  not  to 
me  only,  but  unto  all  them  also  that  love  His 
appearing.' ' 

116 


TICK  THE  SIXTEENTH 

DR.  BOOSCH  leaned  over,  read  those  passages 
again  to  himself,  while  the  minister  stood  by, 
looking  at  the  face  of  his  friend.  What  a  study 
was  that  face — benevolent  and  kindly  and  full 
of  Christian  love — as  he  read  again:  "For  I 
am  now  ready  to  be  offered,  and  the  time  of  my 
departure  is  at  hand." 

Turning  to  Mr.  Maujer,  the  good  doctor  said: 
"David,  I  verily  believe  that  young  man  has 
already  gone — gone  with  naught  else  than  what 
he  had  on.  If  so  it  be,  I  will  lock  up  this  room, 
and  it  shall  never  be  disturbed  by  living  mortal 
as  long  as  my  life  shall  last,  unless  by  Jim  Carbon. 
Mayhap — yes,  mayhap  some  day  he  will  come 
back.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  Myra's  wounded 
heart  has  healed  she  will  realize  the  sacrifice  that 
James  Carbon  has  made — will  understand  the 
unselfish  motives  that  prompted  him  to  be  *  ready 
to  be  offered.'  May  heaven  bless  him  this  night 
and  all  the  nights  of  his  life." 

"Amen  to  that,"  responded  the  minister. 

"Come,  let  us  go  down  stairs.  I  will  lock  the 
door,  and  in  the  morning  I  will  notify  every  one 

117 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

that  it  must  never  be  opened   unless  by  myself 
or  by  the  hand  of  Carbon." 

He  went  to  the  windows,  closed  them,  latched 
them,  pulled  down  the  shades,  put  the  book 
mark  in  the  Bible  where  were  the  passages  quoted, 
closed  it  reverently,  and  put  it  in  the  drawer  of 
Carbon's  little  washstand.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
door,  gave  one  last  look  at  the  interior  of  the  room, 
and  closed  and  locked  it. 

Would  it  remain  locked  forever  ?  Would  any 
hand  other  than  Jim  Carbon's  ever  open  it  ? 
Would  he  ever  be  heard  from  or  of  again  ?  These 
were  the  thoughts  that  were  in  the  mind  of  the 
good  doctor  as  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
withdrew  it,  putting  it  carefully  in  his  wallet. 
He  knew  Carbon  as  a  man  of  his  word;  he  knew 
that  he  would  go  thousands  of  miles  away;  he 
knew  that  he  would  hide  his  identity,  as  he  said 
he  would.  How,  then,  would  they  ever  hear  of 
him  again  ? 

Aye,  Dr.  Boosch,  these  were  questions  that  only 
the  future  could  answer — and  who  of  us  can  read 
the  future  ?  Time  only  could  solve  the  problems 
that  you  propounded  to  yourself,  good  doctor, 
and  it  was  for  me  to  tick  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
counting  off  the  minutes,  hours,  days,  and  years 
before  those  problems  were  solved. 

"Come,  let  us  go  down   stairs,"   repeated  the 

118 


doctor.  "We  will  go  back  to  Myra's  room, 
where  I  wish  you  to  say  a  prayer,  and  then  you 
will  retire  for  the  night.  You  will  occupy  Arthur's 
room,  and  I  will  see  that  you  are  not  disturbed 
until  it  is  time  for  Mrs.  Boosch  and  yourself 
to  leave  to  attend  the  services  over  Richard 
Broakley.  By  the  way,  David,  are  you  going 
to  conduct  the  service  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  the  wish  of  his  father  and  mother 
that  I  should  do  so." 

They  returned  to  Myra's  room.  Her  mother 
had  sat  by  her  side  during  their  absence,  watching 
and  weeping.  Once  only  had  her  daughter 
recovered  herself,  and  then  she  had  looked  up 
appealingly  at  her  mother  and  feebly  asked: 

"  Mother,  is  it  all  true  ?  Has  my  marriage 
to — to  him — really  taken  place  ?" 

"Yes,  my  child,  it  is  true — you  are  the  wedded 
wife  of  James  Carbon — it  is  all  for  the  best,  my 
daughter — it  is  for  the  best  that  it  is  so,  else  your 
father  would  not  have  so  willed  it." 

Here  her  father  and  the  minister  entered  the 
room.  She  turned  to  him  and  looked  up  into 
his  eyes  beseechingly. 

"Has  he — gone,  father?"  she  asked  of  him. 

"Yes,  my  Myra,  he  has  gone — gone  out  in  this 
storm — never  to  return,  perhaps." 

"It  is  well,  father;  it  is  well." 

119 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  tenaciously  clung  to 
his  hands.  "Do  not  leave  me  alone  to-night, 
father,"  she  cried — "do  not  leave  me  alone — 
not  to-night." 

"Content  yourself,  my  child.  I  shall  be  with 
you  to-night  and  all  day  to-morrow — or  to-day, 
rather,  for  it  will  soon  be  day.  I  will  not  leave 
you,  my  Myra." 

She  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  of  relief  and  wearily 
closed  her  eyes  again.  Mr.  Maujer  said  a  short 
prayer,  and  then  was  shown  to  Arthur's  room 
by  the  doctor. 

"Dr.  Boosch,"  said  the  minister,  as  he  took  his 
hand  to  bid  him  good-night,  "no  one  must  know 
for  the  present  that  I  performed  the  wedding 
service  or  when  the  wedding  took  place.  I  should 
merely  say  that  they  had  been  married  and  that 
your  daughter  has  her  marriage  certificate.  There 
will  be  gossip  for  some  time,  of  course,  but  I 
shall  announce  to  all  that  "they  should  refrain 
from  asking  you  any  questions.  Leave  that  to  me. 
Time  will  heal  all  things,  and  ere  long  the  matter 
will  have  passed  from  the  minds  of  the  neighbors. 
All  will  be  well  in  the  end,  if  we  put  our  trust  in 
Him." 

"  How  can  I  ever  repay  you,  David  ?" 

The  minister  held  up  his  hand  warningly. 
"Don't  make  me  repeat  how  much  I  owe  to  you, 

120 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Dr.  Boosch,  by  speaking  of  that.  Whatever  I, 
as  minister  of  the  Gospel,  can  do  for  you  or  yours 
— day  or  night,  at  any  and  all  times — will  be  little 
in  payment  for  my  obligation  to  you." 

"Good-night,  David,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
a  grasp  of  the  hand  that  assured  him  of  his  eternal 
friendship. 

"Good-night,  Doctor.  May  the  morn  become 
brighter  and  the  clouds  of  your  life  be  succeeded 
by  the  bright  sunshine  that  must  inevitably  follow 
a  night  of  darkness  and  of  storm." 

Returning  to  Myra's  room,  the  doctor  said  to 
his  wife:  "Come,  mother,  you  had  better  go 
to  bed  now.  Everything  is  settled  and  peaceful 
for  the  night.  I  will  remain  here  with  Myra. 
See,  I  have  fixed  up  the  cot  for  myself,  and  will 
promise  you  that  I  will  get  a  good  night's  rest." 

He  kissed  her  as  warmly  as  he  did  when  they 
were  lovers  betrothed,  and  she  passed  her  hands 
over  his  brow  and  whitening  hair,  as  was  her 
wont  when  he  was  troubled.  Hers  was,  indeed, 
a  faith  abiding  in  the  strength  of  her  husband — 
in  the  trust  she  had  placed  in  him  when  she,  too, 
had  responded  "Amen"  to  the  closing  words 
of  the  minister  who  had  proclaimed  them  man 
and  wife — these  many  years  agone — "That  which 
God  hath  joined  together  let  not  man  put  asunder." 

A  good  wife,  and  true,  she  had  been  to  him, 

121 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  though  time  had  left  its  mark  of  the  passing 
years  in  the  furrows  on  the  brow  and  the  whitening 
hair,  the  love  they  bore  each  other  was  as  youthful 
as  it  was  in  their  courting  days.  She  had  never 
disputed  her  husband's  will,  and  he,  knowing 
this,  had  never  crossed  her  in  any  wish  or  desire. 
And  so,  when  she  bade  him  good-night,  she  feared 
not  of  the  storm — the  lightning  might  flash,  the 
thunder  might  roll — for  was  there  not  in  the  house 
her  husband,  her  protector  ?  She  feared  nothing 
while  she  knew  of  his  presence. 

When  his  wife  had  left  the  room  he  turned  to 
his  daughter  and  said: 

"Myra,  my  child,  there  are  allotted  in  this  life 
a  certain  amount  of  joys  and  sorrows.  It  is  easy 
for  us  to  bear  the  joys — but  the  sorrows  are  the 
crosses  and  crowns  of  thorns  that  we  must  wear 
through  our  lives;  the  sorrows  make  the  joys  seem 
greater;  the  sorrows  make  us  the  more  grateful 
for  the  joys  that  come,  as  we  welcome  the  dawn 
after  the  darkness  of  the  night.  And  so,  my  child, 
you  must  patiently  bear  your  grief,  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  you  and  Richard  will  meet  again, 
where  there  is  no  parting,  where  there  is  no  pain. 
Myra,  Richard  is  to  be  buried  to-day." 

She  half  arose  in  her  bed,  her  hair  falling  down 
over  her  shoulders,  framing  her  white  face  as 
a  canvas  picture  of  despair.  She  gazed  blankly 

122 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

at    her    father    for    an    instant    and  cried    out: 

"Bury  him — Richard!  Bury  him,  my  Richard! 
No,  no,  no,  it  cannot  be!  Father,  father,  don't 
let  them  do  that — I  must  see  him  again.  Father, 
oh,  father,  let  me  die,  too,  that  I  may  join  him!" 

"It  is  not  God's  will  that  it  should  be  so.  It 
is  His  will  that  we  shall  live  on  until  He  calls 
us  home,  my  child — not  as  we  will  it." 

"Oh,  father,  how  can  I  bear  this  grief?  How 
can  I  go  through  life  without  my  Richard  by  my 
side — he  whom  I  loved  as  woman  never  loved 
before  ?  Richard,  Richard,  why  did  you  leave 
me  ?  Come  back  to  me,  Richard,  come  back 
tome!" 

Her  father  saw  that  she  was  again  becoming 
hysterical  and  forced  her  gently  back  upon  the 
bed,  smoothed  her  hair,  gave  her  a  mild  draught 
of  an  opiate,  and  she  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber. 
With  folded  arms  he  gazed  long  and  earnestly 
at  his  daughter,  then  went  to  the  cot  and  lay 
down. 

But  he  could  not  sleep.  He  lay  there  about 
an  hour,  thinking  of  the  events  of  the  past  few 
days — crowded  so  rapidly  upon  each  other  that 
it  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  covered  a  much 
longer  period  of  time.  In  the  quiet  of  the  night, 
the  stillness  broken  only  by  the  occasional  roll 
of  thunder,  lying  there,  his  thoughts  drifted  back 

123 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

many  years — back  to  the  day  when  he  had  felici 
tated  himself — yes,  and  I,  too,  had  been  felicitated 
— upon  the  arrival  in  the  household  of  a  daughter. 

Then  day  by  day,  almost,  her  life  passed  in 
review  before  him.  What  a  peaceful  and  happy 
life  they  had  led — aye,  peaceful  and  full  of  hap 
piness  and  content.  He  thought  of  her  as  a  child, 
as  a  schoolgirl,  and  then  as  blossoming  into 
womanhood.  He  thought  of  her  engagement 
to  Richard  and  the  joyousness  with  which  those 
two  had  mapped  out  their  future  lives.  He  thought 
of  the  uncertainty  of  this  life — how  abrupt  had 
been  the  ending  of  it  all — how  chaotic  everything 
seemed  to  have  become  without  an  instant's 
warning — not  only  in  that  household,  but  also 
in  another. 

Then  his  mind  reverted  to  the  day  Jim  Carbon 
had  appeared  and  had  asked  for  employment. 
Heaven-sent,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  been  the 
appearance  of  that  young  man  on  that  day. 
He  thought  of  the  friends  Jim  had  made;  of  all  the 
good  deeds  he  had  done,  quietly  and  without 
ostentation;  of  the  affection  that  Mrs.  Boosch 
and  he  himself  had  formed  for  him — almost 
motherly  and  fatherly.  How  he  would  be  missed 
about  the  place,  he  thought. 

What  a  sacrifice  he  had  made,  going  away 
thus  without  a  parting  word  to  the  legion  of  friends 

124 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

who  had  honored  and  respected  him  and  who 
would  now  speak  in  condemnation  of  him — who 
would  be  surprised — shocked — when  the  an 
nouncement  would  be  made  that  he  had  clan 
destinely  married  Myra  and  had  gone  away 
and  deserted  her.  What  would  they  say  to  him 
when  they  spoke  to  him  of  Carbon's  sudden 
disappearance  ?  But  that  mattered  not — he  would 
refrain  from  giving  any  direct  answer,  save  that 
he  had  gone  suddenly,  leaving  them  to  draw 
their  own  inference  as  to  whether  he  had  left 
any  word  as  to  why  or  where  he  was  going. 

Finally  he  arose  and  went  to  the  window, 
parted  the  curtains,  and  peered  out  at  the  inky 
darkness,  illumined  at  intervals  by  the  lightning 
flashes.  He  was  tired,  worn  out,  but  as  sleep 
would  not  come  he  would  remain  up.  Turning, 
he  glanced  at  Myra,  now  quiet  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  soothing  drug,  then  came  down 
stairs  and  into  the  hall,  where  he  looked  up  at 
rne,  as  if  he  would  commune  with  me,  as  was 
his  habit  when  we  were  alone,  and  said : 

"Clock,  these  are  troublous  times,  are  they  not  ? 
But  we  will  weather  them,  won't  we  ?  And  it 
will  all  come  out  right,  won't  it,  Mr.  Clock  ?" 

To  which  I  responded — what  more  could  I 
say  ?— 

"Yes,  yes — yes,  yes — yes,  yes." 

125 


TICK  THE  SEVENTEENTH 

JIM  CARBON  stood  for  one  brief  moment  outside 
the  door.  He  bethought  himself  of  his  storm- 
coat;  he  tried  the  door,  but  it  was  locked — the 
spring  lock  had  shut  him  out.  Should  he  knock 
and  ask  for  it  ?  No,  he  would  rather  brave  the 
storm  clad  as  he  was  than  risk  any  danger  of  a 
reversion  of  his  decision  to  leave  at  once  upon 
the  ending  of  the  ceremony.  But  what  a  night 
to  be  out  without  protection  against  that  pouring, 
driving  rain! 

The  thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
cut  across  the  fields  to  "Bill"  Couterre's  barn. 
He  knew  that  "Bill"  kept  his  big  raincoat  and 
oilskin  hat  there — yes,  and  his  rubber  boots,  too. 
There  would  be  no  harm  in  borrowing  them. 
It  was  fully  five  miles  to  the  station  at  East  Strouds- 
burg,  and  the  roads  would  be  heavy  with  mud. 
He  could  leave  them  in  a  field  somewhere  near 
the  Milford  crossing — any  one  would  know  that 
they  belonged  to  Couterre;  it  would  at  once  be 
surmised  that  Carbon  had  left  them  there  when 
he  had  "deserted."  Yes,  he  would  do  it. 

He  started  across  the  fields,  making  a  detour 

126 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  avoid  going  through  a  clump  of  small  under 
brush  in  a  field  that  had  not  been  cleared.  He 
stumbled  many  times,  in  that  darkness,  but  kept 
on  at  a  good  swinging  gait.  He  wished  to  get  as 
far  away  as  possible  before  the  good  farm  folk 
thereabouts  were  stirring — away  from  the  scenes 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  days.  He 
knew  he  could,  by  a  close  margin,  make  the  fast 
freight  to  New  York,  which  left  East  Stroudsburg 
at  4.15  with  one  passenger  car  attached.  He  knew 
that  by  5  o'clock  he  would  be  many  miles  away 
from  all  those  friends  so  dear  to  him,  from  the 
good  doctor  and  Mrs.  Boosch,  and  from  Myra — 
his  wife. 

How  oddly  that  sounded  to  him.  His  wife! 
Ah,  could  he  have  won  the  love  that  had  been 
Richard  Broakley's,  how  sweet  to  his  ears  would 
have  been  those  two  words — but  to  him,  now, 
how  hollow  they  sounded.  His  wife! — aye,  he 
had  dreamed  of  some  day  winning  a  girl's  love 
and  calling  her  thus.  But  all  was  now  ended — 
yes,  ended,  but  in  a  worthy  cause — to  save  a 
woman's  honor — what  better  cause  could  there 
be  ?  He  would  still  love  her — his  wife — as  he 
had  these  many  days,  unknown  to  her  or  to 
Richard — but  a  dead  love  it  would  be. 

As  Carbon  was  stumbling  along  over  the 
fields,  Mary  Lash  awoke  from  her  troubled  sleep. 

127 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

She  had  not  disrobed;  she  had  been  so  weary 
that  she  had  lain  down  fully  dressed  and  had 
fallen  asleep.  She  remembered  what  Carbon 
had  said  to  her — that  she  would  never  see  him 
again.  She  wondered  why  he  wished  to  see  the 
doctor  alone  in  the  hall  when  all  others  had 
retired.  What  a  mystery  it  all  was,  anyway. 
She  was  nervous,  trembling — was  it  from  the 
storm,  was  it  from  the  long  strain  of  the  vigil 
by  Myra's  door,  or  was  it  because  Carbon  was 
going  away  ?  She  rubbed  her  eyes,  bathed  her 
face,  and  decided  to  go  down  stairs  to  the  kitchen 
and  make  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Upon  opening  the  door  she  was  astonished 
to  see  a  light  in  the  hall  below.  She  peered  over 
and  saw  Dr.  Boosch  pacing  up  and  down.  She 
wondered  what  time  it  was — how  long  had  she 
slept  ?  Why  was  the  doctor  still  down  there  in 
the  hall  ?  iShe  would  have  to  pass  him  in  going 
down  to  the  kitchen,  but  that  would  not  matter; 
she  would  tell  him  that  she  was  restless  and  wished 
to  make  some  coffee.  Perhaps  he  would  like 
some,  also.  So  she  went  softly  down  the  stairs 
and  startled  the  good  doctor  by  her  sudden 
appearance.  He  was  so  deep  in  thought  that  he 
had  not  heard  her  footsteps  upon  the  stairs. 

"Why,  Mary,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  thought 
you  were  in  bed  asleep.  What  are  you  doing  up  ?" 

128 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  did  sleep  for  a  while, 
but  I  am  nervous  and  don't  feel  well.  I  thought 
I  would  come  down  and  make  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Would  you  like  a  cup,  too  ?" 

"Yes,  Mary;  I  think  it  might  do  us  both  good." 

"Shall  I  make  some  for  Carbon,  too  ?  I  heard 
him  go  out  with  the  team,  and  maybe  when  he 
comes  back  he  will  need  a  cup — after  being  out 
in  such  a  night  as  this." 

She  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  letting 
the  doctor  know  that  she  had  heard  Jim  go 
out  and  drive  by.  He  was  astonished,  but  he 
softly  answered: 

"No,  Mary,  you  need  not  make  any  for  Carbon. 
He  has  returned  with  the  team." 

"  Has  he  gone  to  his  room  or  is  he  in  the  kitchen  ? " 

"No,  he  is  not  in  his  room — it  is  locked  and 
must  remain  so,  I  know  not  for  how  long — 
perhaps  for  all  time.  Do  not  ask  any  questions, 
Mary.  Jim  Carbon  has  gone  from  this  house, 
I  think,  forever." 

"Gone?"  gasped  Mary;  "gone?  Dr.  Boosch, 
you  don't  mean  to  say — you  don't  mean  that 
James  Carbon,  the  man  I  loved,  has — 

"What,  Mary  Lash,  you  loved  him?"  asked 
the  doctor,  both  astonished  and  startled  by  the 
suddenness  and  candor  of  this  confession — "you 
loved  Jim  Carbon  ?" 

•  129 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,  Dr.  Boosch,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say 
it — I  loved  him — who  could  help  loving  him — 
and  now  he  is  gone!" 

"Yes,  Mary,  as  I  said,  you  must  not  ask  ques 
tions.  Carbon  will  be  many,  many  miles  from 
here  before  the  sun  sets  to-night." 

Mary  Lash  looked  at  Dr.  Boosch  reproachfully 
as  if  she  blamed  him  for  Carbon's  going  away. 
She  met  his  kindly  eyes,  and  saw  that  there  was 
no  anger  there.  Surely,  they  could  not  have 
quarreled — there  must  be  some  other  reason. 
She  burst  into  tears. 

"There,  there,  Mary,"  said  the  doctor,  "don't 
cry.  Go  ahead  and  make  the  coffee,  and  perhaps 
after  that  you  will  feel  better." 

Mary  went  into  the  kitchen  and  there  saw 
Carbon's  stormcoat  hanging  in  its  accustomed 
place  by  the  door.  That  was  sufficient  evidence 
to  her  mind  that  he  would  return — surely  he 
would  not  leave  in  this  storm  without  it.  He  must 
be  in  the  barn  with  the  horses.  She  would  go 
there.  She  would  tell  him  that  whatever  his 
reason  for  going,  he  should  change  his  mind, 
for  there  could  be  no  good  and  valid  cause,  Mary 
was  sure,  why  he  should  go. 

She  imagined  that  some  fancied  wrong  had 
driven  him  to  that  resolve.  She  was  certain 
that  if  she  knew  it  she  could  argue  with  him 

130 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  convince  him  that  it  was  imaginary — that 
no  one  would  think  of  wilfully  doing  Jim  Carbon 
an  injury,  here,  there,  or  elsewhere.  She  threw 
his  coat  over  her  shoulders,  put  on  a  tam  o' 
shanter  that  was  hanging  beside  it,  slipped  on 
her  rubbers,  took  a  lantern,  and  started  for  the 
barn.  She  wondered  afterward  that  she  was  not 
afraid,  but  there  was  no  fear  in  her  heart  to-night. 
She  would  go  to  him,  beg  of  him,  plead  with 
him,  not  to  go,  for  the  sake  of  all  concerned — 
for  her  sake,  if  need  be. 

She  went  out  to  the  barn — what  a  big,  spacious 
barn  it  seemed  to  her  that  night,  although  she 
had  been  in  it  hundreds,  yes,  a  thousand  times 
before — and  peered  about,  calling  "Mr.  Carbon, 
Mr.  Carbon."  But  there  was  no  response,  save 
that  given  by  the  hollow  echo  thrown  back  from 
the  roof  and  the  weird  moaning  of  the  wind 
through  the  rafters.  Every  nook  and  cranny  she 
searched,  with  the  thought  that  perhaps  it  was 
his  intention  to  wait  until  morning  and  that  he 
had  gone  to  sleep  somewhere  about  the  barn. 

Into  the  hay  loft,  the  granary,  the  workshop, 
the  carriage  room,  everywhere  she  went,  but 
no  sign  of  Carbon.  She  was  becoming  dis 
heartened — she  feared  that  perhaps,  after  all, 
he  had  gone.  She  would,  however,  go  to  his 
room.  Mayhap  he  had,  unbeknown  to  the  doctor, 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

returned  and  had  gone  there  to  pack  up  his 
belongings.  So,  with  heavy  heart  she  returned 
to  the  house,  and  the  doctor  having  stepped  up 
for  a  moment  to  satisfy  himself  that  all  was  well 
in  Myra's  room  before  he  took  his  coffee,  she 
crept  softly  up  the  stairs  to  Carbon's  room  and 
gently  tapped  on  the  door.  No  response  came. 
She  tried  the  door — it  was  locked. 

She  leaned  her  head  against  the  door  and 
bitterly  cried  to  herself:  "Jim,  Jim,  why  did 
you  go  ?  Why  did  you  not  stay  and  learn  to 
love  me  ?  I  would  have  been  a  good  and  loving 
wife  to  you,  Jim  Carbon — yes,  a  good  and  loving 
wife !" 

Strange  it  seemed  to  me,  the  old  family  clock, 
hearing  Mary's  soliloquy,  that  one  heart  in  that 
house  should  be  crying  out  for  him,  while  another 
had  anxiously  inquired  whether  he  had  gone  and 
had  breathed  such  a  sigh  of  relief  when  informed 
that  he  had. 

Strange  it  seemed  to  me,  I  say,  that  Jim  Carbon 
should  yearn  for  a  love  that  he  knew  was  an 
other's,  while  Mary  Lash  was  yearning  for  Carbon's 
love — unknown  to  him.  But  who  can  divine 
the  cause  for  the  misdirected  and  badly  aimed 
darts  of  Cupid  at  times  ? — surely  not  I,  only  a 
clock. 

She    heard    the    doctor    moving    about    in    the 

132 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

room  and  hurriedly  went  down  stairs  and  poured 
out  his  coffee,  and,  with  a  roll  and  butter,  put 
the  tray  on  the  dining-room  table. 

Jim  Carbon,  stumbling  on,  was  utterly  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  any  person  in  the  world  was  giving 
him  a  thought  at  this  time  of  the  night.  He 
was  approaching  Couterre's  barn.  The  storm 
seemed  to  have  lashed  itself  into  a  fury,  as  if  it 
would  beat  itself  out  from  sheer  anger.  The 
floodgates  of  heaven  seemed  to  have  been  opened 
to  their  widest.  Nothing  to  guide  him  but  the 
electric  display  furnished  by  the  elements,  he 
stumbled  up  to  the  barn,  groped  his  way  about 
until  he  found  the  door,  and  then,  at  a  particularly 
sharp  flash  of  lightning,  walked  into  the  barn. 

He  thought  he  knew  where  "Bill"  kept  his 
lantern,  but  it  was  not  there.  However,  Jim  had 
been  in  that  barn  many  times,  and  with  the  few 
matches  that  he  had,  he  managed  to  find  Couterre's 
storm  outfit.  Sure  enough,  it  was  there,  under 
the  old  double-barreled  gun  that  he  kept  there, 
always  ready  cocked  and  loaded,  in  the  event 
of  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  wildcat  or  even 
a  bear,  for  bears  had  wandered  down  the  side 
of  Brushy  Mountain  in  those  days.  Jim  pulled 
out  his  last  match,  lit  it,  took  down  the  coat  and 
hat,  and  as  the  light  went  out,  put  on  the  things 
in  the  dark. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Turning  around,  he  felt  his  way  along  and 
stumbled  over  a  can  of  kerosene,  upsetting  it 
and  spilling  its  contents  over  the  floor — he  could 
tell  that  by  the  odor.  He  kept  on  groping  along 
the  bins,  the  barrels,  and  boxes,  and  finally 
reached  the  door.  During  the  glare  of  a  flash 
he  thought — he  was  positive,  in  fact — that  he  saw 
a  woman's  figure,  clad  in  white,  standing  at  the 
window  of  Couterre's  house,  and  alongside  of  her 
was  the  figure  of  a  child,  also  in  white. 

Jim  stepped  outside  of  the  building,  and  as  he 
did  so  a  brilliant,  vicious  flash  lit  up  the  turbulent 
heavens,  a  crash  that  sounded  as  if  the  very 
mountains  about  were  rent  asunder  followed, 
and  for  an  instant  Carbon  was  stunned  as  the 
bolt  struck  only  a  few  feet  behind  him — the 
spot  he  had  just  left. 

Coincident  with  the  awful  crash  of  that  bolt 
there  was  a  report  as  of  a  gun  discharged  and 
the  piercing  scream  of  a  woman's  voice — so 
piercing  that  it  appeared  to  rise  above  the  now 
reverberating  roll. 

With  a  start  at  the  narrowness  of  his  escape 
and  the  sound  of  that  ear-piercing  scream,  Jim 
Carbon  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  com 
menced  his  journey  to  East  Stroudsburg. 

As  he  swung  out  into  the  main  road  he  turned 
around  and  saw  that  Couterre's  barn  was  ablaze. 

134 


TICK  THE  EIGHTEENTH 

IN  THE  days  of  the  pioneer  work  round  about 
that  part  of  Pennsylvania  there  had  appeared 
one  Henry  Couterre.  He  was  a  Frenchman — 
excitable,  irritable,  and  morose.  He  hewed  close 
to  the  line,  asked  no  favors  of  any  of  the  other 
pioneers  on  the  farms  that  were  opening  up,  kept 
to  himself,  and  raised  a  family  of  seven  children — 
all  boys — one  of  whom  was  William — "  Bill." 

They  brought  up  their  children  rightly,  did 
Henry  Couterre  and  his  wife,  and  none  could 
gainsay  that  they  were  hardworking,  industrious, 
honest  folk,  striving  to  make  a  home  for  them 
selves  thousands  of  miles  from  the  land  that 
bore  their  flag.  They  had  come  to  this  country — 
this  land  of  the  free — dreaming  of  the  opportunities 
for  wealth  that  the  broad  acres  waiting  for  the 
brawn  to  till  them  afforded  the  immigrants. 

They  had  worked  hard — early  and  late — 
had  Henry  Couterre  and  his  good  wife,  living 
first  in  a  loghouse — only  two  rooms  there  were, 
then,  but  they  were  snug  and  warm  in  the  hard 
winter  months.  And,  gradually,  as  field  after 
field  was  opened  up,  and  the  trips  to  the  mill 

135 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

with  the  harvest  grain  became  more  frequent, 
there  were  additions  to  the  loghouse,  as  there 
were  additions  to  the  family  of  those  two  worthy 
persons.  And  so,  by  industry  and  dint  of  hard 
work,  the  couple,  who  came  to  this  country  looking 
forward  as  the  pilgrims  looked  to  the  land  of 
promise,  prospered  and  saw  their  children  grow 
up,  one  by  one,  take  up  their  burden,  and  become 
useful  and  worthy  citizens  of  the  State  of  Pennsyl 
vania — the  Keystone  State,  each  rugged,  honest 
pioneer  of  which  was  only  a  small  particle  of  the 
stone,  but  without  which  that  stone  should  never 
have  been.  Keystone — ah,  how  much  that  word 
conveys!  Keystone,  without  which  the  arches 
of  life  would  crumble  and  fall. 

Build  ye  up,  and  up,  and  up,  and  arch  around. 
And  then — what  is  there  to  hold  together,  to  keep 
from  crumbling,  a  mass  of  wreckage — were  it 
not  for  the  keystone  ? 

Sturdy  chaps  were  these  sons — Charles,  the 
first;  Edward,  the  second;  John,  the  third;  Ben 
jamin,  the  fourth;  Hiram,  the  fifth;  Louis,  the 
sixth — 

And  the  seventh  son  was  William  Couterre — 
the  keystone.  The  father  had  looked  upon  him 
as  many  a  father  looks  upon  his  last-born — with 
patience,  forbearance,  and  forgiveness  for  his 
transgressions.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 

136 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

upbuilded  the  arch — three  upon  each  side — and 
William  was  the  keystone. 

And  so,  when  Henry  Couterre  and  his  wife 
had  been  laid  away,  these  many  years  agone, 
they  had  left  a  goodly  heritage  in  progeny. 

William — everybody  in  Monroe  County  knew 
him  as  "Bill" — was  a  hardworking,  industrious 
man,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him.  He  was 
saving  and  prudent  in  everything  save  the  use 
of  liquor.  For  long  periods  he  would  abstain 
entirely,  but  at  intervals  when  he  went  to  town 
with  a  load  of  railroad  ties  or  with  an  overplus 
of  eggs  and  butter  that  his  wife  did  not  need  for 
his  large  family,  he  invariably  took  a  goodly 
portion  out  in  trade  at  the  town  hotel. 

When  in  his  sober  state  he  was  a  quiet,  peaceful 
man,  going  about  his  work  from  day  to  day 
without  scarcely  speaking  to  his  wife  and  children. 
This  would  last  for  weeks  and  weeks  at  a  time. 
Then  he  would  get  a  notion  into  his  head  that  he 
wanted  to  go  to  town.  His  wife,  a  frail  little 
woman,  had  often  tried  to  dissuade  him,  but  had 
found  it  useless.  She  knew  full  well  that  his  de 
sire  for  liquor  prompted  the  journey.  She  knew, 
also,  that  when  he  came  home  he  would  con 
tinue  drinking  until  he  became  abusive  to  her 
and  the  children,  who  wisely  kept  out  of  his  way 
when  he  was  in  one  of  his  tantrums. 

137 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

She  was  not  afraid  of  him,  powerful  man  though 
he  was — for  he  had  never  attempted  to  do  any  one 
bodily  harm.  But  she  knew  that  there  would  be 
a  war  of  words  that  would  culminate  in  his  going 
away  and  remaining  away  for  several  days,  to 
return  and  peacefully  resume  his  work  about  the 
farm.  This  had  been  repeated  so  often  that  his 
wife  had  become  accustomed  to  it,  and  she  even 
tually  had  given  up  her  pleadings  and  let  him  go 
without  a  protest. 

Two  days  before  Carbon  had  borrowed  his 
things  "Bill"  had  notified  his  wife  that  he  wanted 
her  to  pack  up  a  lot  of  eggs  and  as  many  pounds 
of  butter  as  she  could  possibly  spare.  She  was 
well  aware  of  what  the  meaning  of  this  command 
was.  She  thought  she  would  make  a  mild  appeal 
to  him,  just  this  once. 

"I'm  a-going  to  town,  Martha,"  he  said. 
"  I  need  a  new  pair  of  boots  and  I  reckon  I  had 
better  bring  along  a  couple  of  shirts.  I  don't 
think  I  need  anything  more,  do  I  ?  What'll 
I  bring  for  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  William.  I  was  down  to  town 
last  week,  you  know,  and  bought  all  I  will  need 
for  some  time.  Don't  be  long,  William,  and  don't 
tarry  too  long  at  the  inn.  If  you  must  drink, 
William,  bring  something  home  with  you  and  drink 
it  here,  where  you  will  be  out  of  harm's  way." 

•38 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Couterre  did  not  like  to  be  chided  about  his 
drinking.  He  knew  his  weakness — knew  that 
when  he  went  to  town  he  would  fall  by  the  way 
side.  Often  and  often  had  he  promised  his  wife, 
as  he  drove  off,  that  he  would  not  touch  a  drop — 
and  as  often  had  he  failed  in  his  promise. 

So  it  was,  when  he  returned  from  his  trip  he 
was  very  much  under  the  influence — ugly,  aggres 
sive,  seeking  opportunity  for  an  outlet  for  his 
quarrelsome  disposition  when  in  his  cups. 

On  his  way  home  Couterre  had  met  Silas 
Creeker,  for  whom  he  had  a  hatred  that  did  not 
come  to  the  surface  except  on  such  occasions 
when  liquor  excited  his  passion.  They  had  had 
hot,  angry  words  on  the  road,  but  did  not  come 
to  blows,  inasmuch  as  Silas,  who  was  far  superior 
to  Couterre  in  physical  strength  and  who  never 
indulged  in  liquor  himself,  was  too  level-headed 
to  come  into  combat  with  a  man  who  plainly 
was  under  the  influence.  He,  however,  could 
not  take  the  taunts  and  slings  that  "Bill"  had 
thrown  at  him  without  retaliating  in  kind. 

All  of  which  did  not  tend  to  mollify  the  latter, 
and  when  they  finally  parted  with  a  particularly 
strong  fusillade  of  abuse,  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
Couterre  was  in  no  amiable  mood.  He  staggered 
on  until  he  reached  his  home,  and  then  began 
a  repetition  of  what  his  wife  had  gone  through 

'39 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

many,  many  times.  It  was  always  his  custom, 
on  these  periodical  trips,  to  bring  home  a  sufficient 
quantity  of  liquor  to  tide  him  over  several  days, 
and  this  time  he  had  not  failed  to  do  so.  He  pulled 
out  bottles  from  almost  every  pocket,  and  put  them 
in  various  hiding  places  about  the  barn— not 
that  he  was  afraid  of  their  being  taken  away 
from  him,  but  in  his  half-maudlin  way  there 
was  a  sense  of  apology  about  his  action — he 
seemed  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  and  did  not 
like  others  to  know  that  he  was  still  imbibing, 
for  in  his  sober  senses  he  had  an  aversion  to 
liquor  and  to  any  one  under  its  influence. 

Many,  many  trips  he  made,  back  and  forth 
from  the  house  to  the  barn,  and  each  time  that  he 
returned  he  became  more  excited  and  maddened. 
He  wanted  some  one  to  quarrel  with  to  give 
vent  to  the  fancied  wrongs  that  were  conjured  up 
in  his  muddled  brain,  but  every  one  kept  out  of 
his  way.  His  children — five  of  them  there  were 
— feared  him,  not  so  much  that  he  would  do 
them  harm,  but  abuse  and  unkind  words  from  a 
parent  to  a  child  are  harder  to  bear,  sometimes, 
than  physical  pain.  But  no  matter  what  his 
condition,  whether  intoxicated  or  sober,  there 
was  one  to  whom  he  never  said  an  unkind  word, 
and  that  was  his  eldest  daughter,  Alice. 

For   her   he   seemed   to   have   an   overweening 

140 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

fondness  that  no  amount  of  liquor  could  deaden. 
So  it  was,  whenever  there  was  a  family  storm 
brewing,  she  was  always  by  her  mother's  side, 
knowing  that  she  could  in  a  measure  pacify  him. 
And  on  the  day  that  Carbon  had  visited  the  barn 
she  had  remained  close  by  her  mother's  side, 
for  she  knew  full  well  that  the  time  was  at  hand 
when  the  usual  quarrel  would  take  place  between 
her  mother  and  father — she  could  pacify,  but  she 
could  not  prevent.  Often  and  often  had  she 
witnessed  these  quarrels  before,  and  each  time 
she  had  hoped  and  prayed  that  it  would  be  the 
last.  She  was  now  fifteen  years  of  age,  and  her 
love  for  her  father,  although  she  was  wearying 
of  these  scenes,  was  as  great  as  that  for  her  mother. 

All  day  he  had  roamed  about  the  farm,  finding 
fault  with  this  and  with  that,  grumbling  and 
gesticulating  to  the  silent  trees  in  the  orchard, 
then  making  another  trip  to  the  barn.  This 
course  he  continued  until  sundown,  when  he 
entered  the  house. 

The  family  was  seated  at  the  supper-table 
when  he  entered.  He  staggered  into  the  room, 
glaring  at  his  son  Tom.  What  Tom  had  done 
to  warrant  his  displeasure  no  one  knew,  not  even 
Couterre  himself,  probably. 

Without  a  word  of  warning  he  went  over  to 
Tom  and  gave  him  a  stinging  box  on  the  ear. 

141 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Tom  was  the  oldest  boy,  eighteen  years  of  age, 
and  performed  all  the  heavy  work  about  the  place 
when  his  father  was  on  one  of  his  sprees.  He 
was  a  good-natured  boy,  was  Tom,  and  had 
often  borne  these  blows  before,  but  this  time 
he  resented  it.  He  gave  his  father  a  shove  that 
sent  him  reeling  toward  the  door.  This  only 
added  fuel  to  the  fire  that  was  raging  in  Couterre's 
brain,  and  with  an  oath  he  sprang  at  Tom,  who 
warily  dodged  him  and  left  the  room. 

Then  "Bill"  turned  upon  his  wife,  accusing 
her  of  having  urged  the  boy  to  turn  against  his 
father,  charging  her  with  having  encouraged 
his  children  to  become  disrespectful  to  him,  and 
finally  became  so  abusive  that  she  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  but  left  the  room  and  started  to 
go  upstairs.  He  staggered  after  her,  followed 
by  his  daughter  Alice  who  begged  him  to  be  good 
to  her  mother,  but  her  pleadings  fell  upon  deaf 
ears.  He  continued  his  reviling  up  to  their 
room,  where  he  eventually  burst  into  such  a 
passion  that  he  fairly  shook  the  house  with  his 
wild  ravings,  and  then,  after  throwing  chairs 
around  and  smashing  several  things,  he  stumbled 
down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  barn.  In  a  short 
while  he  came  out,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the 
evening  they  saw  no  more  of  him. 

In    the    meantime    the    storm    had    come    up, 

142 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  Mrs.  Couterre,  who  loved  her  husband 
notwithstanding  his  one  great  fault,  was  con 
siderably  concerned  about  him  and  ordered  Tom 
to  go  out  into  the  barn  and  see  if  he  was  there. 
Tom  did  so  and  returned  with  the  information 
that  he  had  been  all  through  the  barn,  the  carriage 
shed,  and  even  to  the  neighbors,  but  none  had 
seen  him.  The  horses  were  all  in  the  stable, 
so  he  could  not  have  gone  any  other  way  than  by 
foot. 

Mrs.  Couterre,  worried  about  his  absence 
throughout  the  night,  watching  at  the  window 
at  the  storm  which  he  must  be  out  in,  was  sure 
that  she  saw  him  stumbling  around  the  barn 
long  after  midnight.  She  awakened  Alice,  and 
there  at  the  window  those  two  stood  watching 
for  the  appearance  of  the  husband  and  father. 
Finally,  after  not  many  minutes,  they  thought 
they  saw  the  form  of  Couterre  emerging  from 
the  door.  As  a  flash  of  lightning  illumined  the 
surroundings  Alice  exclaimed: 

"Why,  yes,  there  is  papa.  Didn't  you  see 
him  ?  He  had  on  his  stormcoat  and  his  oilskin 
hat.  I  could  see  that." 

They  remained  by  the  window  an  instant 
longer.  All  was  darkness  again. 

As  Alice  stepped  away  there  was  a  blinding 
flash,  followed  by  a  fearful  crash.  Simultaneously 

H3 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

with  that  crash  there  came  an  agonizing  scream 
from  her  mother. 

Mrs.    Couterre,    riddled    with    shot,    fell    dead 
at  her  daughter's  feet. 


144 


TICK  THE  NINETEENTH 

CARBON,  keeping  steadily  on  his  way,  plowing 
through  deep  mud  and  pools  of  water,  looked 
back  now  and  then  and  saw  the  glare  reflected 
in  the  dark  heavens  as  the  flames  consumed  Cou- 
terre's  barn.  He  plodded  on  and  on,  often  won 
dering  what  time  it  was.  The  last  crash  and 
flash  seemed  to  have  been  the  culmination  of  that 
awful  storm,  the  like  of  which  old  settlers  had 
rarely  seen.  It  had  spent  its  fury,  evidently,  in 
that  last  vicious  snap.  The  distant  rumbling 
denoted  that  it  was  making  itself  known  and  felt 
in  other  parts. 

Little  by  little  the  rifts  began  to  show  in  the 
clouds,  and  as  Carbon  plodded  along  in  his 
solitary  walk  he  wished  that  day  would  dawn. 
He  knew  that  it  could  not  be  very  long,  as  faint 
streaks  in  the  breaks  of  the  swiftly  moving  clouds 
made  evident  that  fact.  He  figured  out  that  he 
would  be  able  to  make  East  Stroudsburg  in  time 
for  the  4.15  train,  but  he  would  have  to  swing 
along  at  a  lively  gait — almost  impossible  under 
the  condition  of  the  roads.  Steadily  he  kept  on, 
however,  and  as  gradually  it  became  light  and  he 

145 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

could  partially  see  his  way  he  increased  his  pace. 
Five  miles  makes  a  fairly  good  walk  under  ordi 
nary  circumstances,  but  when  it  is  taken  into 
consideration  that  Carbon  was  compelled  at  times 
to  draw  one  foot  after  another  from  the  deep  mud, 
no  wonder  that  he  was  becoming  weary,  par 
ticularly  as  he  had  had  so  little  sleep  in  the  past 
few  days. 

Finally  the  breaking  of  the  dawn  was  suf 
ficiently  advanced  to  enable  him  to  see  the  face 
of  his  watch.  He  was  near  the  Milford  crossing, 
and  the  time  was  exactly  four  o'clock.  This  would 
allow  him  only  fifteen  minutes,  and  it  would 
necessitate  his  moving  pretty  rapidly  in  order 
to  get  to  the  station  in  time.  He  went  over  to  a 
fencepost,  pulled  off  Couterre's  coat  and  hat, 
put  on  his  own  soft  hat  which  he  had  kept  under 
the  coat,  and  laid  them  beside  the  post.  Thus 
lightened  of  the  heavy  coat,  he  was  enabled  to 
increase  the  pace  at  which  he  was  going,  as  he 
struck  the  sidewalks  of  the  town.  He  looked 
back  over  the  hills  toward  Marshall's  Creek  and 
saw  the  smoke  from  what  he  knew  were  the  ruins 
of  "Bill's"  barn  slowly  ascending  and  drifting 
away  in  a  stretch  along  the  skyline  of  hills  and 
mountains. 

As  Jim  neared  the  station  he  saw  a  familiar 
figure  stumbling  along.  Could  it  be  ? — yes,  it 

146 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

was  Couterre  himself — wet,  bedraggled,  and 
drunk.  Jim  thought  to  speak  to  him  and  tell 
him  that  his  barn  had  burned  down,  that  he  had 
borrowed  his  storm  outfit,  and  where  he  could 
find  it.  Plainly  "Bill"  had  been  drinking  all 
night  and  Jim  was  aware  that  if  he  went  over  to 
speak  to  him  it  would  mean  missing  that  train. 
He  did  not  want  to  miss  it — he  must  catch  it. 
Let  Couterre  find  out  for  himself.  It  was  of 
vastly  greater  importance  to  Jim  to  get  away 
before  the  townsfolk  were  astir  than  that  he 
should  endeavor  to  make  himself  understood 
by  "  Bill."  No,  he  would  go  on,  and  go  on  he  did. 

The  rays  of  the  rising  summer  sun  were  just 
beginning  to  peep  above  the  horizon,  burnishing 
up  the  fields  and  woods  that  had  been  freshened 
by  the  torrents  of  the  night,  when  Carbon  heard 
the  distant  whistle  of  the  train.  He  knew,  then, 
that  he  could  make  it  easily.  He  slackened  his 
pace  for  a  moment,  that  he  might  take  a  last 
view  of  the  country  that  he  had  so  often  traversed 
in  the  past  four  years. 

There,  in  front  of  him,  stood  the  Kittatinny 
Mountain,  towering  some  fourteen  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea-level,  through  which  flowed  the 
Delaware  River, — the  Delaware  Water  Gap. 
Turning  around  and  facing  away  from  the  Kittat 
inny,  he  saw  in  the  distance  dear  old  Pocono, 

H7 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

over  which  he  and  Richard  Broakley  had  both 
often  traveled  together,  dreaming  of  locating 
some  fortune-producing  mineral — yes,  and  per 
haps  both  dreaming  of  Myra  at  the  same  time. 

Only  for  a  fraction  of  a  minute  did  he  gaze 
around  at  the  familiar  landscape;  then  started 
toward  the  station,  a  short  distance  away.  Arrived 
there  he  went  to  the  ticket  office  and  was  greeted 
by  the  agent,  who  knew  him  by  sight,  but  not  by 
name. 

"Ticket  to  New  York,"  he  said  to  the  clerk, 
who  acted  as  ticket  seller,  telegraph  operator, 
freight  agent,  and  train  dispatcher  at  night,  in 
addition  to  various  other  duties. 

"Not  coming  back?"  he  asked  of  Carbon. 
Not  that  he  cared  one  whit,  but  it  would  have 
seemed  impolite  to  him  had  he  not  asked  some 
question.  "Must  have  been  called  away  sudden 
like,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Carbon.  He  did  not  know 
the  man  beyond  having  seen  him  around  the 
station  at  times,  and  consequently  did  not  think 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  enlighten  him  very 
much  as  to  his  movements. 

He  stepped  out  on  the  platform  as  the  head 
lights  of  the  approaching  train  swung  around 
the  curve  at  Milford  crossing,  shimmering  in 
the  pale  dawn  of  the  morning.  How  cool  and 

148 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

refreshing  it  was  to  stand  there,  with  the  rarefied 
air,  cooled  by  the  storm  of  the  night,  giving  him 
relief  from  the  warmth  of  that  hard  walk  with 
Couterre's  heavy  coat  on!  Then  the  train  rolled 
in  and  Jim  swung  up  on  the  step  of  the  rear 
car — the  only  passenger  car. 

This  car  was  a  combination  smoker  and  pas 
senger,  and  as  Jim  entered  he  glanced  about  at 
the  sleeping  passengers.  In  one  corner  was  a 
man  snoring  hard  enough  to  offset  the  chug-chug 
of  the  engine  as  it  seemed  to  be  gathering  fresh 
breath  after  the  stiff  pull  over  Pocono.  In  another 
corner  was  a  colored  man,  head  drooped  back, 
mouth  wide  open,  trying  to  send  back  to  the 
other  corner  a  discordant  refrain. 

Near  the  centre  of  the  car  was  a  couple  also 
sleeping.  They  were  evidently  a  fly-by-night 
theatrical  team,  for  their  dressing  suit  case  bore 
the  legend,  "The  Nelsons — Comedy  Two."  Be 
sides  these,  Carbon  was  the  only  other  passenger. 
He  sat  down — what  a  relief  that  was  after  the  long 
tramp  of  the  night! — and  as  the  engine  tooted 
and  started  toward  the  turn  around  Forge  Cut 
he  got  his  last  glimpse  at  Monroe  County. 

What  a  beautiful  morning  that  was!  As  the 
train  wound  its  tortuous  way  along  the  Delaware 
River,  how  fresh  and  sweet  and  fragrant  every 
thing  seemed.  Carbon,  seated  by  the  open 

149 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

window,  wondered  if  the  future  of  those  he  had 
just  left  behind  would  be  like  unto  that  morning- 
peaceful  and  full  of  sunshine,  after  the  storm. 
Nature  was  awakening  from  that  turbulent  night, 
refreshed  and  beauteous,  as  if  it  would  show  by 
comparison  how  much  better  our  lives  would 
be  if  we  would  dispel  the  storms  and  have  only 
sunshine. 

And  as  the  train  sped  on,  the  smoke  from  the 
farmhouse  chimneys,  leisurely  curling  upward 
in  the  calm  of  the  morn,  gave  evidence  of  the 
awakening,  also,  of  humanity.  Here  and  there 
the  train  rushed  by  a  little  village,  the  inhabitants 
of  which  were  beginning  to  show  signs  of  activity 
born  of  the  day.  The  cows  were  being  led  to 
pasture  by  the  barefooted  boy;  here  was  a  team 
being  harnessed  to  the  plow;  there  was  a  man 
harrowing,  thus  early  in  the  morning;  and,  again, 
the  village  baker  was  driving  along  the  heavy 
road  delivering  the  staff  of  life  to  those  who  had 
tilled  the  soil  that  the  grain  therefor  might  grow. 

The  big,  round,  red  sun  was  beaming  down 
upon  all  alike — upon  the  poor  farmer,  upon  the 
prosperous  one;  upon  the  humble  helper  and  the 
owner  of  many  acres;  upon  the  milkmaid  and  the 
mistress;  upon  the  good  and  the  bad. 

As  the  train  neared  Washington,  in  the  State 
of  New  Jersey,  Carbon  began  to  feel  slight  pangs 

150 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

of  hunger.  He  remembered,  now,  that  he  had 
not  eaten  since  yesterday  noon.  He  inquired 
of  the  conductor  as  to  where  the  first  stop  would 
be  made,  to  which  he  received  reply  that  "she 
whoops  right  through."  A  healthy  appetite 
was  Carbon's,  and  when  the  colored  man  woke 
up  and  fished  from  a  cardboard  box  a  goodly 
layout,  Carbon  envied  him.  As  if  he  divined 
that  his  neighbor  in  front  of  him  was  in  need  of 
rations,  the  colored  man  leaned  over  and  said: 

"Boss,  ef  yo'  don'  min'  I  wud  jes'  laik  toe 
ast  yo'  toe  jine  muh.  Ah  hasn't  ben  used  toe 
chawin'  ob  muh  grub  by  muhself,  an'  it'd  seemer 
kinder  good  toe  hab  some  un  bitin'  in  wid  me." 

"You  are  very  kind,  indeed,"  said  Jim,  who 
could  not  refrain  from  casting  furtive  glances 
at  the  spread  the  colored  man  had  in  front  of 
him,  "but  I  would  not  like  to  rob  you." 

"Rob!  Rob  nuthin'!  My  ole  woman  she 
thinks  Ah'm  ah  ho'se — two  ho'ses — an'  puts  up 
uh  feed  that'd  keep  sum  folks  foh  er  munt'. 
Rob  ?  Why,  boss,  jes  a-look  heah.  Does  yo' 
t'ink  yo'  wud  be  a-robbin'  er  coon  as  has  all  this 
fuh  toe  git  away  fum  yer  toe  New  York  ?" 

"Well,  I  must  say,"  replied  Carbon,  "your 
missus  has  certainly  treated  you  well  as  far  as 
quantity  goes — and  I  dare  say  in  quality  as  well." 

He  turned   around  and   glanced  into  the  box. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

First,  there  were  ham  sandwiches — ham  such  as 
only  a  "mammy"  can  cook — neatly  done  up  in 
a  white  napkin;  then  there  were  hard-boiled  eggs, 
shining  as  if  she  had  spent  hours  polishing  them 
up  for  her  lord  and  master;  then  there  was  a  jar 
of  quince  jelly;  then  a  jar  of  tiny  pickles,  the  color 
of  the  greensward  in  springtime;  then  a  piece 
of  pumpkin  pie,  which  in  itself  would  almost 
make  a  meal  for  a  man;  and,  to  top  it  all  off,  a 
slice  of  raisin  cake  as  big  as  Carbon's  two  fists 
put  together. 

"No,"  said  Carbon,  after  he  had  completed 
the  survey,  "I  do  not  think  my  conscience  would 
trouble  me  if  I  did  take  a  little,  for  there  certainly 
is  enough  to  go  around." 

"Sho'  as  yo'  is  bohn,  mistuh.  Pitch  in  an'  do 
yo'  bestus." 

"Thanks."  And  Jim  turned  his  seat  around 
facing  his  colored  friend,  and  thus  they  ate  and 
talked  until  Paterson  was  reached,  when  the  colored 
man  said  he  would  like  to  have  a  pull  at  his  old 
corncob  and  went  into  the  smoking  compartment 
to  finish  his  journey  in  company  with  his  pipe. 

Carbon,  left  to  himself,  began  to  ruminate 
upon  his  future  movements.  He  planned  that 
he  would  go  out  to  some  western  state  and  secure 
work  upon  a  farm,  as  he  had  when  he  applied 
to  Dr.  Boosch.  First  he  would  go  to  Egg  Harbor 

152 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

City,  settle  his  affairs,  draw  his  money,  and  from 
there  he  would  go  at  once  to  Chicago.  He  had 
this  all  settled  in  his  mind,  and  seemed  self- 
satisfied  with  his  arrangement.  He  settled  back 
in  his  seat,  picked  up  a  New  York  newspaper  of 
the  previous  day  that  some  one  had  left  in  the 
car  and  casually  glanced  over  the  news.  There 
was  nothing  startling.  Then  his  eye  wandered 
over  the  big  advertisements,  offering  alluring 
inducements  to  the  feminine  world;  then  his  eye 
fell  upon  the  "Personal"  column,  with  its  mass 
of  wants,  and  heirs  sought,  and  whereabouts 
of  missing  persons  desired,  and  what  not.  He 
ran  his  eye  down  the  column,  when  suddenly 
his  attention  was  attracted  to  an  advertisement 
which  caused  him  to  read  it  more  than  once. 
Then  he  read  it  aloud  to  himself,  to  be  sure  that 
he  was  reading  aright: 

"Wanted — A  young  man  accustomed  to  hard 
and  rough  work,  to  join  advertiser  in  prospecting 
tour  in  Nevada;  will  leave  at  once;  must  have 
$500  and  big  muscles  and  lots  of  grit,  otherwise 
don't  bother  me.  Call  or  address  Clinton  Eilen, 
Room  i6B,  Astor  House,  New  York  City." 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Carbon,  "the  very  thing. 
I  will  go  to  see  him  as  soon  as  I  get  to  New  York. 
But  what  name  will  I  give  ?  Let  me  see — James 
Carbon.  I  don't  want  to  lose  sight  of  my  name 

153 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

entirely.  James — Ames — Amos — yes,  that  will  do. 
And  Carbon — Arbon — Boncar — no  that  won't  do. 
Barcon — that's  it!  Amos  Barcon!  I  certainly 
couldn't  forget  that.  Yes,  henceforth  I  am  Amos 
Barcon  to  all  the  world — to  every  one  I  meet. 
Good-bye,  James  Carbon!  How  do  you  do, 
Amos  Barcon  ?" 

And   it  was   thus   that   from   the    chrysalis    of 
James  Carbon  emerged  Amos  Barcon. 


154 


TICK  THE  TWENTIETH 

As  THE  train  bearing  Carbon  was  speeding 
on  toward  Hoboken,  Couterre  was  staggering 
on  his  way  home.  He  was  a  pitiable-looking 
object.  With  his  clothes  wet  through,  bloodshot 
eyes,  stubbly  growth  of  beard,  shaking  like  a 
leaf,  he  was  the  picture  of  misery  and  remorse. 
He  had  about  reached  the  end  of  his  spree  and 
had  sobered  up  a  little — sufficient  to  feel  the 
depression  that  overcomes  those  who  stimulate 
themselves  for  days  and  then  suddenly  stop. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  drink 
another  drop,  as  he  stumbled  along  with  uncertain 
step. 

He  had  a  good  long  walk  before  him,  and  that 
would  straighten  him  out  a  little,  he  thought, 
before  he  saw  his  wife  and  children.  He  felt 
mean,  in  all  that  the  word  implies — mean  in  that 
he  had  made  an  exhibition  of  himself,  while  under 
the  influence  of  liquor,  before  his  children;  mean 
in  that  he  had  struck  his  son  Tom,  who  was  the 
best  of  sons,  faithful  to  him  and  to  his  work; 
mean  in  that  he  had  reviled  his  good  wife  in  the 
presence  of  his  daughter  Alice.  Yes,  he  would 

155 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

give  up  drink  forever.  He  reached  into  his  pocket, 
drew  forth  a  bottle,  looked  at  it  as  if  it  were  tempt 
ing  him,  and  then  impetuously  smashed  it  on  a 
stone  in  the  road. 

He  wondered  how  he  had  drifted  to  town  that 
night.  It  was  all  a  blank  to  him — the  past  night — 
and  as  he  realized  his  condition  he  felt  that  he 
would  give  half  his  farm  if  he  could  recall  the  days 
in  his  life  when  all  had  been  dark  and  dense 
owing  to  the  effect  of  the  liquor  on  his  brain. 
However,  he  would  do  better  in  the  future — he 
and  liquor  would  part  company  for  the  remainder 
of  his  life. 

He  staggered  from  one  side  of  the  road  to  the 
other  until  he  reached  the  spot  where  Carbon 
had  put  his  stormcoat  and  hat.  He  looked  at 
them  with  astonishment,  picked  them  up,  and  with 
a  half-sober,  half-drunken  exclamation,  said  to 
himself: 

"Bill,  how  in  the  world  did  you  ever  come 
to  leave  these  things  here  ?  I  don't  remember 
having  put  these  on  when  I  left  the  house.  Better 
quit,  old  man,  better  quit." 

It  was  a  veritable  mystery  to  him,  and  only 
added  to  his  determination  to  free  himself  from 
any  further  chances  of  again  falling  into  the 
clutches  of  strong  drink.  He  retraced  his  steps 
and  went  directly  to  Squire  Townsend's  house. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

It  was  early  yet  and  the  squire  had  not  arisen. 
He  waited  at  the  door  until  he  came  down,  when 
he  informed  him  that  he  wanted  to  swear  off 
for  good  and  for  all. 

Little  did  he  dream,  then,  that  within  a  few 
hours  he  would  again  be  in  the  squire's  office. 
Squire  Townsend,  who  had  known  Couterre  since 
childhood,  was  more  than  pleased  at  his  good 
resolution  and  drew  up  an  affidavit,  as  strong  as  he 
could  make  it,  and  with  his  hand  upraised  Cou 
terre  swore  in  the  presence  of  the  Almighty  that  he 
would  never  again  allow  a  drop  of  liquor  of  any 
kind  to  pass  his  lips. 

This  done,  and  having  drunk  a  deep  draught 
of  water  to  cool  his  burning  throat,  "Bill"  left 
the  squire's  office  feeling  stronger,  morally,  than 
he  had  ever  felt  before  in  his  life.  He  continued 
his  journey  home  with  a  better  and  lighter  feeling. 
Hereafter  he  would  not  again  have  to  suffer  as 
he  had — the  mental  torture,  the  loss  of  self- 
respect,  the  uncertainty  of  what  his  actions  had 
been  during  the  period  that  liquor  had  made 
his  mind  a  blank,  the  shattering  of  his  nerves. 
He  would  enter  into  a  new  life;  he  would  win 
back  the  respect  of  his  wife,  of  his  children. 
How  different  the  future  appeared  now  to  him 
from  what  it  had  been  before  he  had  made  his 
firm  resolution. 

157 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

It  was  now  full  day,  and  glancing  over  toward 
the  mountain  side  where  was  his  home,  he  saw 
a  faint  streak  of  smoke — like  a  light,  fleeting 
cloud  it  appeared  to  him — stretching  away  to 
the  northward.  He  continued  on  his  way,  going 
across  fields  whenever  he  came  near  a  farmhouse, 
as  he  did  not  wish  to  meet  any  one.  He  had 
donned  the  heavy  stormcoat  that  Carbon  had 
discarded  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  the  hat. 
Finally,  as  the  sun's  rays  became  warm  and  strong, 
he  spread  out  his  coat  and  lay  down  on  the  side 
of  a  hill  in  order  to  dry  out  his  clothes.  It  was 
thus  that  he  fell  asleep,  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
stirring  events  that  had  taken  place  at  his  home 
since  he  had  left  it  the  night  before. 

That  fearful  scream  emitted  by  Mrs.  Couterre 
as  she  fell  dead  at  her  daughter's  feet  aroused 
all  her  children,  who  came  rushing  into  her  room. 
Alice  lay  on  the  floor  beside  her  mother.  She  had 
swooned.  Tom  was  the  first  one  to  arrive,  and 
saw  at  a  glance  that  his  mother  had  been  shot. 
He  did  not,  however,  know  that  she  was  dead. 
He  lifted  the  form  of  his  mother  upon  the  bed 
and  went  over  to  Alice,  poured  some  water  on 
her  temples,  chafed  her  hands,  and  finally  brought 
her  to  consciousness. 

"  Great  heavens,  Alice,  what  has  happened  ?" 
he  asked,  as  she  opened  her  eyes. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Alice  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  said : 

"Happened — happened?  Oh,  yes,  now  I  re 
member.  I  am  in  her  room,  am  I  not  ?  Where 
is  mother  ?" 

"Mother  is  lying  on  her  bed.  I  have  sent 
Willie  over  to  Dr.  Boosch's  house  to  ask  him  to 
come  at  once.  Now  tell  me,  Alice,  what  has 
happened.  Speak  quick,  for  mother  needs  our 
care." 

"Why,  Tom,  mother  and  I  were  standing 
at  the  window  watching  for  papa.  By  the  light 
ning's  glare  we  saw  him  come  out  of  the  barn,  and 
an  instant  later  there  was  a  crash  and  I  thought 
I  heard  a  gun  go  off  at  the  same  time — and  mother 
screamed  and  fell  to  the  floor,  and  I  guess  I  did, 
too,  didn't  I,  Tom  ?" 

With  this  Alice  recovered  and  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  to  her  mother's  side. 

"Mother  mother,"  she  cried,  "speak  to  me! 
Speak  to  me!" 

She  threw  her  arms  about  her  neck,  passionately 
kissed  her  a  dozen  times,  and  burst  into  tears. 
She  did  not  know,  then,  that  those  lips  were 
sealed  forever. 

As  Couterre's  children  stood  around  the  bedside 
waiting  for  Dr.  Boosch,  his  son  William  was 
running  across  the  fields  as  fast  as  his  legs  would 
let  him.  He  was  thirteen  years  of  age,  but  was 

159 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

tall  and  angular,  and  there  were  few  who  could 
beat  him  at  running.  With  the  thought  that  his 
mother's  life  was  at  stake  as  an  incentive,  the 
ground  fairly  flew  under  his  feet.  In  an  almost 
incredible  space  of  time  he  was  knocking  at  the 
door  of  Dr.  Boosch's  homestead.  It  was  still 
dark  and  it  was  some  time  before  Mary  Lash 
came  down  to  inquire  who  was  there  at  the  door. 

"It's  me,"  William  said. 

"Yes,  but  who  is  'me*  ?"  asked  Mary,  peering 
out  at  the  figure  at  the  door. 

"Why,  it's  me — Willie  Couterre.  We  want 
the  doctor  to  come  over  right  away.  Mother 
has  been  shot." 

"Shot!"  exclaimed  Mary.  "In  mercy's  name, 
what  is  going  to  happen  next  ?" 

She  darted  up  the  stairs  as  she  had  when 
Carbon  brought  Broakley's  body  home,  and 
aroused  the  doctor.  He  was  fully  dressed,  as 
he  had  only  lain  down  for  a  few  minutes  on  the 
cot  by  Myra's  side. 

Mary  informed  him  of  what  William  had  said. 
Dr.  Boosch  snatched  up  his  professional  hand 
bag,  ever  ready  for  service,  gave  a  hasty  glance 
at  his  daughter,  who  was  still  under  the  influence 
of  the  opiate  he  had  given  her,  bade  Mary  remain 
by  her  side  during  his  absence,  and  hurried  down 
stairs  and  joined  the  lad.  He  could  not  keep 

1 60 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

pace  with  him,  but  told  him  to  go  ahead  and  tell 
the  folks  to  start  a  fire  and  have  plenty  of  hot 
water  as  that  would  probably  be  the  first  thing 
he  would  need,  along  with  some  clean,  white 
linen  for  bandages. 

When  Dr.  Boosch  arrived  at  Couterre's  house 
he  was  ushered  up  stairs  by  Tom.  The  children 
were  all  gathered  around  their  mother's  bed, 
vainly  pleading  with  her  to  speak  to  them,  to  open 
her  eyes,  to  tell  them  what  to  do.  They  were 
absolutely  helpless.  Where  was  their  father  in 
this  time  of  need,  they  asked  each  other.  The 
good  doctor,  who  was  almost  unnerved  by  the 
awful  calamities  that  had  multiplied  within  a 
few  days,  brushed  aside  the  weeping  children 
and  bent  over  Mrs.  Couterre. 

It  required  but  a  cursory  glance  to  convince 
him  that  his  services  as  a  physician  were  not 
needed.  He  glanced  around  at  the  array  of  eyes 
waiting  for  his  verdict.  His  heart  sank;  he 
choked  back  a  sob;  his  own  sorrows  had  made 
a  child  of  him,  too,  and  his  strongly  emotional 
nature  showed  plainly  as  he  turned  his  face 
away  from  those  gathered  there,  and  wept. 

"My  dear  children,"  he  said,  when  he  could 
command  his  voice,  "you  are  motherless." 

Motherless!  Ye,  who  know  not  what  that 
meant  to  that  little  band  of  children,  weep  for 

u  161 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

them.  Weep  for  them — for  the  aching  hearts, 
the  void  in  their  lives,  the  hollowness  of  the  sound 
as  they  instinctively  cry  out  "Mamma"  in  their 
time  of  trouble.  To  be  fatherless  means  to  be 
without  the  breadwinner — to  struggle  along  bat- 
ding  against  grim  want;  to  be  motherless  means 
to  be  without  that  maternal  love  to  which  we  cling 
in  all  our  sins,  our  sorrows — our  shelter  in  the 
time  of  storm.  When  in  your  childhood  you  fell 
and  bruised  yourself,  or  cut  your  fingers,  or  had 
any  childish  sorrow — to  whom  did  you  cry  out 
for  relief?  Mother!  "Mamma,  I  hurt  myself; 
I  fell  down  stairs,"  you  cried,  and  who  took  you 
up  and  folded  you  to  her  breast  and  kissed  away 
the  tears  and  brought  back  the  sunshine  to  your 
eyes  and  started  you  off  anew  to  your  romping 
and  your  play  ?  Mother! 

"  But  how  did  it  all  happen  ?  Where  is  your 
father  ?"  Dr.  Boosch  inquired  of  Tom  and  Alice, 
when  they  had  calmed  somewhat. 

Tom  then  gave  him  a  detailed  account  of  what 
had  taken  place  from  the  moment  that  his  father 
had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  make  a 
trip  to  town.  He  told  of  how  his  father  had  re 
turned  intoxicated,  of  how  he  had  kept  up  his 
drinking,  of  how  he  had  struck  his  son,  of  how 
he  had  quarreled  with  his  wife,  and  of  what 
Alice  had  told  him  occurred  in  her  mother's  room. 

162 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"I  don't  know  where  father  is  now,"  Tom 
concluded;  "no  one  has  seen  him  since  mother 
and  Alice  saw  him  coming  out  of  the  barn." 

"Was  your  father  in  a  rage  when  he  left  the 
house  ?"  the  doctor  asked  of  Alice. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "he  was  real  angry.  He 
threatened  to  end  it  all  some  day — but,  then, 
he  was  not  himself,  you  know,  Doctor." 

Dr.  Boosch  was  thoughtful  for  some  time. 
Then  he  turned  to  Tom. 

"Tom,  you  must  go  for  Mr.  Brickett,  the 
undertaker.  And  on  your  way  stop  and  tell 
Sheriff  Barre  that  I  wish  to  see  him  at  once  at 
my  house.  Better  go  on  horseback,  Tom,  so 
that  you  can  return  as  soon  as  possible.  You 
are  the  oldest,  and  will  have  to  look  after  matters 
for  a  while.  And  you,  children,  I  want  you  to 
come  over  to  my  house  and  stay  there  to-day. 
I  must  go  back,  for  Myra  is  not  well,  you  know, 
and  I  must  be  with  her.  Come,  children,  get 
your  clothes  on  and  come  with  me.  You  must 
not  stay  here." 

While  the  children  were  getting  dressed  Dr. 
Boosch  pulled  the  sheet  over  the  body  of  Mrs. 
Couterre,  locked  the  door  of  the  room  and  handed 
the  key  to  Tom,  who  had  already  slipped  on  his 
clothes  and  was  ready  to  go. 

By  this  time  it  was  daylight,  and  with  Alice 

163 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  the  three  smaller  children  Dr.  Boosch  returned 
to  his  home.  He  called  Mary  Lash  and  told  her 
to  get  some  breakfast  for  them.  When  Mary 
heard  that  Mrs.  Couterre  was  dead  she  affec 
tionately  kissed  each  one  and  consoled  them  as 
much  as  lay  in  her  power. 

In  a  short  while  Sheriff  Barre  arrived,  and 
immediately  Dr.  Boosch  took  him  into  his  private 
office.  He  excused  himself  for  a  moment  while 
he  called  his  wife  to  ask  her  to  stay  with  Myra. 
They  were  closeted  for  a  long  while — more  than 
an  hour  it  was.  Finally  the  sheriff  emerged 
from  the  room,  went  to  the  barn,  hitched  up  the 
doctor's  horse,  and  drove  at  breakneck  speed 
down  the  road. 

Sheriff  Barre  continued  on  until  he  reached 
Squire  Townsend's  office.  He  had  a  long  talk 
with  him,  received  some  document  from  him 
that  was  drawn  out  while  he  waited,  and  went  to 
a  hotel  for  a  bite  to  eat.  That  ended,  he  again 
got  into  the  doctor's  rig  and  drove  to  Couterre's 
house.  As  he  was  driving  up  to  the  door  he  saw 
"Bill"  coming  across  the  fields  with  the  storm- 
coat  on  his  arm  and  his  oilskin  cap  in  his  hand. 
He  had  taken  a  nap  and  had  almost  completely 
sobered  up,  but  his  mind  was  still  extremely 
hazy  as  to  the  past  twenty-four  hours. 

He   was   astonished,   as   he   came   up,   to   see 

164 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Undertaker  Brickett's  wagon  standing  by  the  door. 
And  there  was  what  had  been  his  barn — now 
a  mass  of  burned  and  charred  timber.  And 
there  was  Dr.  Boosch's  rig,  with  Sheriff  Barre  in 
it.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  What  had  happened  ? 
Was  the  liquor  still  in  his  brain,  making  him  see 
imaginary  things  ?  No,  there  they  all  were,  in 
front  of  him  as  he  came  up  close  to  the  house. 

He  stepped  up  to  the  sheriff  and  said: 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Barre.  What  brings 
you  here  ?  When  did  my  barn  burn  down  ? 
What  has  happened  ?  What  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

These  questions  came  rapidly  to  the  stolid- 
visaged  sheriff,  who  said : 

"I  guess  you  know  well  enough  what  has 
happened,  William  Couterre.  And  let  me  tell 
you  right  now  that  I  have  a  warrant  in  my  pocket 
for  you." 

"A  warrant  ?     For  me  ?" 

"Yes,  for  you,  William  Couterre." 

"And  what  have  I  done,  pray,  outside  of  getting 
drunk  ?" 

"The  warrant  calls  for  your  arrest  for — 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  He  did  not  like  to 
be  too  blunt.  He  wanted  to  see  what  effect  it 
would  have  on  Couterre. 

"Well,  out  with  it,  Sheriff.  What  is  it  ?" 
demanded  Couterre,  who  was  trying  to  conjure 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

up  in  his  mind  what  overt  act  he  could  have 
committed  while  in  a  state  of  frenzy  under  the 
influence  of  liquor. 

"You  are  arrested,  William  Couterre,"  dramat 
ically  said  the  sherifF,  "for  the  deliberate  murder 
of  your  wife,  Louisa  Couterre!" 


166 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-FIRST 

MY,  my,  how  events  had  crowded  together 
those  few  days!  How  peaceful  and  happy  all 
had  been  but  a  few  days  before!  And  now — 

Richard  Broakley  dead;  Myra  suffering  from 
shock  and  grief  and  married  to  Jim  Carbon; 
Mary  Lash  broken-hearted;  Jim  Carbon  gone 
away;  Mrs.  Couterre  shot  to  death;  William 
Couterre  in  jail,  charged  with  the  murder  of  his 
wife;  the  good  doctor  and  Mrs.  Boosch  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Broakley  griefstricken. 

Surely  fate  had  made  ravages  in  that  community 
in  a  very  short  time. 

This  was  the  day  for  the  burial  of  Richard 
Broakley.  At  noon  carriages  and  vehicles  of 
all  kinds  were  already  being  prepared  to  take 
their  owners  to  the  Broakley  home.  Mr.  Maujer, 
having  slept  peacefully  throughout  the  early 
morning  and  until  late  in  the  day,  was  astounded 
to  find  that  it  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  awakened. 
He  hastily  dressed  and  came  down  stairs  just  as 
Sheriff  Barre  drove  off. 

"Good  morning,  Doctor,"  he  greeted.  "And 
how  did  you  rest  last  night  ?" 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"  Good  morning,  David.  Rest  ?  Why,  I  have 
not  been  to  bed  at  all.  Matters  are  becoming 
still  more  complicated.  Mrs.  Couterre  was  shot 
and  killed  last  night.  Sheriff  Barre  has  just 
gone  for  a  warrant  for  her  husband,  charging 
him  with  having  killed  her." 

"What!  William  Couterre  murdered  his  wife? 
You  don't  mean  to  say,  do  you,  Doctor,  that  you 
believe  that  that  is  true  ?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  David,  that  I  do  believe 
that  it  is  so.  He  had  quarreled  with  her,  left 
in  a  passion,  vowing  that  he  would  some  day 
end  it  all,  was  seen  by  his  wife  and  daughter 
coming  out  of  the  barn,  and  immediately  there 
after  his  wife  was  riddled  with  bullets  from  a 
shotgun.  Couterre  then  set  fire  to  his  barn, 
evidently,  in  his  drunken  frenzy,  and  wandered 
off." 

"  Has  he  been  seen  since  ?" 

"I  believe  not — that  is,  as  far  as  I  know.  The 
sheriff  is  undoubtedly  looking  for  him  now." 

"Doctor,"  said  the  minister,  "I  can  hardly 
realize  it.  Outside  of  his  drinking  habits  Couterre 
was  a  good  man.  It  seems  incomprehensible 
to  me  that  he  could  commit  murder." 

"Yes,  Couterre  was  a  hard-working  man, 
good  to  his  family,  and  had  no  other  great  fault 
than  his  periodical  craving  for  liquor.  I  could 

168 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

scarcely  reconcile  myself  to  the  fact,  either, 
were  it  not  that  all  the  indications  are  so  palpable. 
He  was  undoubtedly  liquor-crazed  at  the  time, 
but  that  does  not  lessen  his  responsibility  for  his 
act  in  the  eyes  of  the  law." 

"I  shall  go  over  and  see  his  children,  and  see 
what  I  can  do  for  them,"  said  Mr.  Maujer. 

"His  children  are  here.  I  brought  them  with 
me.  I  would  not  think  of  allowing  them  to  stay 
in  the  house  alone  with  their  dead  mother." 

"May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him  for  desolat 
ing  his  home  and  his  children.  A  good  woman 
was  Mrs.  Couterre — a  good  woman.  I  know 
she  bore  his  weakness  with  Christian  fortitude. 
And  how  is  Myra  this  morning  ?" 

"She  appears  to  have  improved  somewhat. 
I  shall  be  glad  when  this  day  is  over.  I  am  very 
much  concerned  lest  the  tolling  of  the  church 
bell  down  at  the  Corner  bring  about  a  reaction." 

"Well,  she  must  be  patient  and  bear  up.  I 
will  go  and  see  her  after  breakfast  and  have  a 
short  prayer  with  her  and  advise  her  to  put  her 
trust  and  hope  in  God." 

"It  will  do  her  good,  David,  I  am  sure.  Come, 
breakfast  is  ready.  Mrs.  Boosch  will  join  us 
in  a  moment." 

They  sat  down,  and  when  the  doctor's  wife 
came  in,  the  minister  said  grace  and  they  discussed 

169 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  various  turns  that  affairs  had  taken.  There 
certainly  was  food  for  conversation  and  reflection 
in  the  doings  of  the  past  few  days,  and  when 
they  had  finished  the  meal  all  three  went  up  to 
Myra's  room. 

"Good  morning,  Myra,"  said  Mr.  Maujer, 
cheerfully.  "  And  how  are  we  this  morning,  eh  ?" 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Maujer;  good  morning, 
papa  and  mamma.  What  a  beautiful  morning 
it  is,"  she  said,  glancing  over  at  the  curtained 
window,  through  which  the  sun  was  beaming, 
casting  its  rays  upon  the  case  of  butterflies  which 
she  and  Richard  had  gathered  in  their  happy 
rambles  about  the  country-side. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  morning,"  said  her  father. 
"  But  what  a  storm  that  was  last  night.  I  thought 
at  times  that  the  house  was  fairly  rocking." 

"May  I  sit  up  to-day,  father?"  inquired  Myra. 

"Yes,  for  a  while  this  afternoon,  if  you  will 
promise  to  be  good." 

"I  will  be  good,  father,"  she  said,  with  a  faint, 
sad  smile  upon  her  lips.  "They  are  going  to 
— to — bury  Richard  to-day  ?" 

"Yes,  my  child,"  broke  in  the  minister.  "He 
will  go  to  his  last  resting-place.  It  is  the  will 
of  God.  Let  us  pray." 

The  prayer  was  short,  but  full  of  spiritual 
consolation  for  those  whom  Richard  had  left 

170 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

behind.  It  taught  Myra  that  she  must  bear 
her  sorrow  as  He  had  borne  His;  that  she  should 
remember  that  we  all  must  some  day  be  gathered 
to  our  fathers  and  ourselves  leave  others  behind 
to  mourn  for  us;  that  she  must  look  forward  to 
the  future  with  the  thought  that  the  man  she 
loved  was  with  her  in  spirit,  if  not  in  body. 

After  the  prayer  Myra  seemed  to  have  brightened 
up,  although  the  tears  were  silently  stealing  down 
her  cheeks. 

"Father,"  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "I  will 
be  brave;  I  will  be  strong.  My  heart  is  heavy, 
father,  but  I  will  bear  up  in  my  faith  that  we  will 
meet  again  some  day." 

"Well  said,  my  child — well  said,"  Dr.  Boosch 
replied,  stooping  over  and  kissing  his  daughter. 
"You  have  much  to  bear,  yet,  before  all  will  be 
sunshine  again,  but  it  will  lie  with  yourself  how 
soon  that  time  will  come.  Now,  mother, "  he  said, 
turning  to  his  wife,  "I  wish  you  would  stay  with 
Myra  for  a  little  while,  I  want  to  take  a  bit  of  ex 
ercise  with  David.  I  have  been  so  accustomed  to 
my  walk  after  breakfast  that  I  would  feel  like  an 
old  man  if  I  should  miss  it." 

Dr.  Boosch  and  Mr.  Maujer  walked  along 
leisurely  in  the  cool  of  that  summer  morning. 
Fast  friends  were  they,  and  much  they  had  to 
talk  about  whenever  they  met.  Both  were  godly 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

men  and  had  much  in  common  in  the  interests 
of  the  church.  They  talked  of  church  matters 
for  a  while  and  then  the  conversation  drifted 
to  Richard  Broakley. 

"What  a  pity  that  so  young  and  healthy  a 
man  should  be  taken  away  so  suddenly,"  said 
the  minister.  "What  a  blow  to  his  parents. 
I  feel  so  deeply  for  them  that  I  am  afraid  I  will 
break  down  during  the  services." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  "they  will  feel 
their  loss  for  many  years  to  come.  I  shall  go 
over  to  see  them  often  with  Mrs.  Boosch  and 
give  them  what  comfort  I  can.  They  will  surely 
need  it." 

"My,  what  changes  there  have  been  since 
his  death — and  only  a  few  hours  ago,  too.  It 
seems  that  everything  has  gone  wrong  since 
then.  I  wonder  where  Carbon  went  to,  and  if 
he  is  still  determined  to  go  far  away.  What  a 
good  man  he  was,  Doctor — such  men  are  not 
often  met  with  in  a  day's  walk." 

"No,  they  are  not,  David.  He  will  get  his 
reward  some  day,  I  am  sure.  Success  cannot 
fail  to  come  to  one  who  is  so  honest,  so  good, 
so  kind,  so — what  more  can  I  say  ?" 

"I  shall  often  think  of  those  verses  in  the 
Bible  which  he  marked  and  shall  use  them  for 
my  text  in  my  sermon  next  Sunday." 

172 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

By  this  time  they  had  come  within  a  short 
distance  of  Couterre's  house. 

"Shall  we  go  and  see  if  the  undertaker  has 
arrived  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"As  you  wish,"  replied  Mr.  Maujer. 

They  walked  on  until  they  came  within  sight 
of  the  house.  They  saw  Brickett's  wagon  stand 
ing  by  the  door. 

"Yes,  he  has  arrived,"  Dr.  Boosch  said.  "We 
will  go  in  and  see  him  and  Tom.  Maybe  they 
know  what  has  become  of  Couterre.  Strange 
how  he  should  have  become  so  frenzied  as  to 
commit  that  awful  deed.  But,  then,  there  is 
no  knowing  what  liquor  will  lead  to." 

"You  are  right,  Doctor.  Drink  is  an  awful 
curse.  I  can  never  preach  too  strongly  against 
it,  as  I  feel  that  had  it  not  been  for  you,  my  dear 
friend,  I  might  have  become  a  victim  myself. 
Oh,  Doctor,  Doctor,  you  do  not  know  how  much 
I  owe  to  you — how  much  gratitude  I  feel  toward 
you.  Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  ever 
forget." 

"Tut,  tut,  David.  It  was  His  will  that  you 
should  have  been  saved  to  spread  His  word." 

They  entered  Couterre's  house,  after  gazing 
pensively  at  the  ruins  of  the  barn  that  had  held 
a  goodly  quantity  of  grain  and  farm  implements. 
They  were  met  at  the  door  by  Tom. 

173 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  your  father, 
Tom  ?"  Dr.  Boosch  inquired. 

"Yes,  he  was  here.  He  went  away  with 
Sheriff  Barre.  He  has  been  arrested  for  murder 
ing  mother." 

Tom  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  was  breaking. 

"There,  there,  Tom,"  said  the  man  of  God, 
"be  brave.  Remember  that  the  entire  responsi 
bility  of  this  home  now  rests  upon  your  shoulders. 
What  did  your  father  have  to  say  ?" 

"He  remembered  nothing.  He  fell  upon 
mother's  body  and  broke  down  completely.  He 
cried  out  that  he  was  innocent — that  he  could 
not  believe  that  he  was  capable  of  such  a  deed, 
no  matter  how  drunk  he  might  have  been.  He 
wanted  to  stay  here  for  a  while  to  arrange  for 
the  future,  but  Barre  would  not  allow  him  to  stay 
for  more  than  half  an  hour.  Father  showed  me 
an  affidavit  that  he  had  made  before  Squire 
Townsend  that  he  would  never  touch  a  drop 
of  liquor  again  in  his  life." 

"Poor  man,"  said  Mr.  Maujer,  "what  a  pity 
that  he  had  not  done  so  long  ago." 

"Yes,"  echoed  the  doctor,  "he  might  have 
been  happy  with  his  wife  alive  to-day.  Oh,  what 
misery  is  brought  about  through  the  curse  of 
drink!  Tom,  as  long  as  you  live,  never  take  a 
drop  of  liquor." 

174 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Indeed,  I  never  shall,"  replied  Tom.  "How 
could  I  ever  forget  such  a  lesson  as  I  have  been 
taught  ?  My  poor  mother!  My  poor  mother!" 

"Tom,"  said  the  doctor,  "do  not  give  way, 
for  you  will  have  to  take  the  place  of  your  father 
and  Alice  will  have  to  take  the  place  of  your 
mother.  You  are  both  old  enough  to  care  for 
your  little  brother  and  sisters." 

The  doctor  and  the  minister  gave  Tom  some 
advice  and  consolation  and  encouragement,  and 
then  had  quite  a  long  conversation  with  Mr. 
Brickett,  who  was  also  coroner.  The  latter 
told  them  that  Mrs.  Couterre  had  been  frightfully 
riddled  with  shot.  It  appeared  to  him  as  though 
both  barrels  of  a  shotgun  had  been  emptied  at  her. 
He  said  that  he  would  bring  his  wife  after  Richard's 
funeral  was  over  and  have  her  stay  until  Mrs. 
Couterre  was  buried,  in  order  that  she  might 
instruct  the  children  how  to  get  along  without 
their  mother  and  to  give  them  such  comfort 
as  lay  in  her  power. 

Dr.  Boosch  and  Mr.  Maujer  then  left,  as  it 
was  almost  time  for  the  latter  to  start  with  Mrs. 
Boosch  for  the  Broakley  home  and  the  doctor 
did  not  wish  to  remain  away  too  long  from  Myra. 

Returning  to  the  doctor's  house,  they  found 
Mrs.  Boosch  awaiting  them  in  her  daughter's 
room.  She  was  anxious  to  go  to  Mrs.  Broakley 

175 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  be  of  service  to  her.  She  could  console  her 
in  this  hour  of  her  affliction  as  no  other  could. 
The  minister  immediately  prepared  himself  and 
in  a  short  while  they  drove  off. 

Arrived  at  the  Broakley  home  they  found  that 
many  persons  had  already  gathered  there.  Mr. 
Maujer  sought  out  Mr.  Broakley,  while  Mrs. 
Boosch  went  directly  to  his  wife,  and  those  two 
gave  spiritual  consolation  and  comfort  to  both. 

At  the  appointed  hour  Mr.  Maujer  read  the 
service  at  the  house,  and  the  funeral  cortege 
started  for  the  little  country  church  at  the  Corner, 
where  the  coffin  was  carried  into  the  church 
and  Mr.  Maujer's  eulogy  began.  He  spoke  long 
and  earnestly.  He  dwelt  on  the  uncertainties 
of  life  as  exemplified  in  the  sudden  death  of  one 
in  the  prime  of  life  and  the  full  vigor  of  man 
hood;  he  spoke  of  the  grieving  parents,  beseech 
ing  the  Almighty  to  be  with  them  now  and  through 
all  time;  he  reverently  committed  them,  and  all 
present,  to  the  care  of  the  Heavenly  Father, 
and  referred  to  the  inscrutable  ways  of  Providence 
in  taking  away  from  the  loving  parents  their 
only  child.  Mr.  Maujer  spoke  feelingly,  and 
at  times  his  voice  became  faint  with  his  emotion. 
The  service  closed  with  the  singing  by  the  little 
choir  of  "Abide  With  Me"  and  "Nearer,  My 
God,  to  Thee." 

176 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

And  so,  in  the  little  churchyard,  surrounded 
by  the  fields  of  growing  grain  and  the  whispering 
trees  of  the  woodland,  they  laid  away  all  that 
was  mortal  of  Richard  Broakley.  And  with  the 
burying  of  his  body  they  buried  the  love  of  one 
of  the  prettiest  and  sweetest  women  of  Monroe 
County — Myra  Boosch,  now  Mrs.  James  Carbon. 


177 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-SECOND 

WHEN  Carbon  arrived  in  New  York  he  went 
to  the  Astor  House  and  there  was  directed  by 
a  bellboy  to  Room  i6B.  In  answer  to  his  knock 
on  the  door  a  voice  said,  "Come  in."  He  opened 
the  door  and  saw  in  front  of  him  the  figure  of  a 
man  seated  on  a  chair,  tilted  back,  with  his 
feet  cocked  up  on  the  window-sill.  He  did  not 
even  look  around  to  see  who  his  visitor  was. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Clinton  Eilen  ?"  asked  Carbon. 

"The   same,"   came   the   reply. 

"I  came  to  see  you  in  answer  to  your  advertise 
ment  regarding  a  prospecting  tour  out  West." 

"And  who  are  you?"  came  in  a  drawl  from 
the  figure. 

"Amos  Barcon  is  my  name." 

The  figure  slowly  unwound  itself  from  its 
tangled-up  position  and  raised  itself  to  its  full 
height — an  even  six  feet.  It  extended  its  hand 
with  great  deliberation  and  drawled: 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Barcon  ?  So  you  would 
like  to  take  a  whirl  with  me  at  hunting  for  the 
metal  that  makes  the  mare  go,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Jim.     "I  have  no  ties  to  bind 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

me  here,  and  I  wanted  to  go  out  West,  anyway. 
I  have — or,  rather,  I  can  get — five  hundred 
dollars,  and  if  everything  is  agreeable  to  you 
we  can  start  whenever  you  wish.  I  need  only  a 
day  to  settle  my  affairs  and  get  the  money." 

"Let's  see  your  fists,"  said  Mr.  Eilen.  "Um, 
looks  as  if  you  were  used  to  hard  work.  Do  you 
drink  or  smoke  ?" 

"  I  have  never  done  either," 

"Ah,  model  young  man,  eh?  Well,  I  like  a 
drink  once  in  a  while,  and  as  to  smoking,  why, 
I  wouldn't  do  without  it  for  a  farm.  Great  con 
solation,  that,  when  your  mind  is  tangled  up — 
kind  of  clears  the  fog  off  the  brain.  Ever  done 
any  prospecting  ?" 

"Not  much.  Only  around  the  mountains  of 
Pennsylvania." 

"Not  much  in  that,"  drawled  Mr.  Eilen. 
"Well,  I  haven't  done  much  in  that  line,  either, 
I  think  we  are  pretty  even  on  that  score.  I 
have  studied  considerable,  however,  and  if  book 
learning  will  be  of  any  benefit  I  will  have  a  good 
supply  on  hand.  So  you  want  to  go  away  as 
soon  as  you  can,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Jim.  "As  I  said  I  have  no 
ties  to  keep  me  here — my  father  and  mother  are 
both  dead." 

"No  girl  to   leave   behind  ?     Or  is   k  a   case 

179 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

of  the  girl  not  returning  your  love  and  that  you 
are  going  away  to  show  her  that  you  can  go  away 
and  never,  never  see  her  again — like  in  a  story — 
eh  ?"  said  Eilen  with  a  smile. 

Carbon  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  He  little 
knew,  evidently,  how  near  the  truth  he  had  come. 
All  this  while  they  had  been  standing.  Carbon 
turned  around  as  if  he  were  seeking  a  chair  in 
order  to  hide  the  crimson  that  had  come  into  his 
face. 

"Mr.  Eilen,"  he  said,  "there  are  some  things 
in  a  man's  life  that  are  sacred.  I  do  not  wish 
to  talk  about  that.  I  came  here  in  answer  to 
your  advertisement.  Do  you  think  I  would  be 
a  desirable  person  to  join  you  ?" 

"Now,  look  here,  old  man,  I  meant  no  offense. 
You  are  right — there  are  some  things  that  are 
sacred  to  us.  I  shall  never  mention  the  subject 
again.  Ever  been  West  before  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Carbon.  "I  have  never  traveled 
beyond  New  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania." 

"Well,  I  have,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  right 
now,  from  the  beginning,  that  we  will  have  before 
us  no  easy  times.  Five  hundred  dollars  apiece 
will  not  carry  us  very  far,  I  can  tell  you,  and  we 
will  have  to  do  some  tall  hustling.  It  is  no 
picnic  we  are  undertaking,  Mr.  Barcon,  and  you 
can  make  up  your  mind  that  we  will  have  to  go 

180 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

through  many  hardships  before  we  can  see  our 
way  clear  to  a  fortune — if  we  ever  do." 

"I  have  taken  everything  into  consideration," 
said  Jim.  "The  greater  the  amount  of  work 
and  the  harder  the  task  set  before  me,  the  more 
will  I  be  pleased.  It  is  just  what  I  wish  for." 

"Well  said,  my  friend.  I  think  you  will  find 
me  frank  and  honest  in  my  dealings  with  you, 
and  I  feel  sure  that  I  will  get  the  same  in  return. 
I  like  you,  old  man,  and  I  think  we  can  strike  a 
bargain  and  call  the  deal  closed.  Take  a  chair 
and  we  will  have  a  chat  about  our  plans  for  the 
immediate  future." 

"Thanks,"  said  Carbon.  "I  have  seen  little 
of  the  world  and  will  be  glad  of  the  opportunity 
to  travel  around,  even  if  I  have  to  go  through 
hardships  and  trials.  I  feel  that  we  will  pull 
well  together." 

He  looked  Clinton  Eilen  square  in  the  face. 
The  latter  was  a  man  of  about  thirty  years — not 
a  handsome  man,  by  any  means,  but  his  gray 
eyes  were  sharp  and  keen,  his  nose  was  elevated 
slightly,  and  his  cheekbones  protruded.  The 
mouth  was  set  firmly,  showing  determination,  not 
unmixed  with  kindness.  He  was  not  of  an 
excitable  disposition,  that  was  sure,  for  he  drawled 
when  he  spoke,  and  there  was  a  certain  drollness 
in  his  speech  that  denoted  that  he  had  considerable 

181 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

humor  about  him  and  would  make  an  entertain 
ing  and  interesting  companion.  Carbon  took 
a  great  fancy  to  him  at  once,  and  the  feeling 
was  evidently  mutual. 

"Now,  let  me  say  a  word  about  myself,  Mr. 
Barcon,"  Eilen  said  as  he  pushed  a  chair  toward 
him.  "I  was  born  in  New  York  City  nearly 
thirty  years  ago  My  father  kept  a  grocery  store 
and  did  a  good  business.  We  were  pretty  well- 
to-do,  as  things  go,  and  my  father  was  able  to 
send  me  to  college  and  keep  me  there  until  I 
was  twenty-three  years  old.  Then  he  was  sud 
denly  stricken  with  paralysis  and  I  was  called 
home  to  attend  to  the  business.  But  I  had  never 
had  any  fondness  for  the  grocery  or  any  other 
business  that  would  keep  me  indoors.  Besides, 
I  had  no  training  whatever  for  that  line  of  business. 
And  so,  when  my  father  died,  a  short  while  after, 
I  took  hold  of  the  store  in  a  half-hearted  sort  of 
way  and  kept  things  going.  But  when  my  mother 
followed  him,  two  years  later,  I  sold  the  business 
and  went  out  West.  I  spent  what  money  I  derived 
from  the  sale  of  the  store  in  traveling  around 
and  came  back  here  to  collect  what  was  still 
due  me — about  seven  hundred  dollars.  And 
here  I  am.  I  have  no  one  dependent  upon 
me,  never  fell  in  love  with  a  girl,  and  have  been 
a  happy  sort  of  knockabout.  Now  I  am  ready 

182 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

for  another  jaunt — and  I  hope  it  will  be  a  profitable 
one,  too." 

"I  want  to  say  a  few  words  about  myself, 
too,"  said  Carbon.  "I  was  born  near  Egg 
Harbor  City  in  New  Jersey,  a  little  over  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  and  have  had  only  a  country 
school  education.  I  have  had  to  work  pretty 
hard  ever  since  I  was  a  boy.  My  parents  owned 
a  farm,  which  was  heavily  mortgaged,  and  it 
took  them  years  to  clear  this  almost  off.  They 
did  not  live  to  see  that  entirely  accomplished, 
however,  for  they  both  died  suddenly  about  five 
years  ago.  I  left  immediately  after  they  were 
buried  and  have  never  been  near  the  place  since. 
My  lawyer  sold  the  farm  for  me  and  put  the 
money  in  bank  to  my  credit.  I  have  drawn 
upon  that,  instead  of  adding  to  it,  and  as  a  con 
sequence  have  only  about  six  hundred  dollars 
left." 

He  did  not  say  that  the  money  he  had  drawn 
out  was  used  not  for  his  own  personal  wants, 
but  to  help  those  in  distress.  He  did  not  say, 
furthermore,  that  there  were  many  in  Monroe 
County  who  had  been  beneficiaries  of  his  little 
all — the  money  that  his  parents  had  worked  for 
and  saved.  Neither  did  he  say  that  he  had 
often  received  the  prayers  and  blessings  of  those 
who  were  tided  over  by  him  in  time  of  financial 

183 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

storm,  and  that  there  were  children  and  parents 
who  had  received  presents  of  shoes  and  wearing 
apparel  at  Christmas  time  from  some  unknown 
person,  but  suspected  that  they  came  from  James 
Carbon. 

"And  so  you  see,"  concluded  Jim,  "I,  too, 
am  anxious  for  an  opportunity  to  make  my  way 
in  the  world  and  better  my  financial  condition, 
Mr.  Eilen." 

"Don't  call  me  Mr.  Eilen,"  drawled  that 
person.  "Don't  call  me  Mr.  Clinton  Eilen; 
don't  call  me  Mr.  Clinton — Clint  will  do.  We 
will  be  together  much,  you  know,  and  it  will 
be  a  waste  of  breath,  and  we  will  need  all  we  have 
of  that,  I  guess." 

"Well,  then,  Clint,  if  you  will  call  me  Amos 
we  will  quit  even." 

"All    right,   old    man,  Amos    it    will    be — that 

O          7  • 

sounds  less  formal.  You  say  you  want  a  day  to 
get  ready  ?  All  right.  We  need  take  very  little 
with  us.  We  can  get  whatever  we  need  when 
we  get  to  Chicago.  And  from  there  I  propose 
going  on  to  Denver.  Then  we  will  take  a  look 
around  and  see  how  the  land  lays.  I  will  give 
up  my  room  after  to-morrow  and  will  meet  you 
at  the  station  in  Jersey  City  at,  say,  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  day  after  to-morrow.  Is  that 
agreeable  ?" 

184 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"  Perfectly,"  replied  Carbon. 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  seething, 
busy  world  rushing  hither  and  thither  up  and 
down  Broadway.  How  different  from  the  peace 
and  quiet  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed. 
A  feeling  of  homesickness  came  over  him.  He 
had  become  so  attached  to  the  Boosches  and  to 
his  work  about  the  old  homestead  that  it  is  little 
wonder  that  he  felt  a  momentary  pang  of  regret 
at  the  circumstance  that  had  torn  him  away 
from  them. 

Old  Trinity  was  just  tolling  the  hour  of  three — 
the  hour  set  for  Richard  Broakley's  funeral. 
He  wondered  who  were  there;  he  wondered  if 
Myra  would  be  able  to  go;  he  wondered  how 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Broakley  were  bearing  up  under 
the  trial  of  the  last  sad  rites  to  their  son;  he  won 
dered  if  "Bill"  Couterre's  barn  had  been  com 
pletely  destroyed.  He  had  torn  himself  away 
so  suddenly  that  it  was  like  a  dream  to  be  separated 
from  those  he  had  learned  to  love  and  respect 
and  from  the  scenes  that  had  become  so  familiar. 

"Well  Amos,  what  are  you  dreaming  about  ? 
Goldfields,  and  mines,  and  quartz  and  lots  of 
money,  eh  ?"  said  Clint,  after  giving  Carbon  a 
few  moments  to  himself. 

"  In  a  week  or  so  we  will  see  something  entirely 
different  from  this,"  pointing  out  to  Broadway. 

.85 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,  and  I  am  anxious  to  get  away.  I  would 
rather  work  hard  in  the  open  country  than  live 
a  life  of  ease  in  this  great  town,"  replied  Jim. 
"Just  look  at  the  way  everybody  is  rushing  around 
like  mad.  Is  it  always  like  this  ?" 

"Yes,  this  is  an  everyday  scene.  Everybody 
seems  bent  on  getting  somewhere  in  the  least 
possible  time,  as  if  there  was  nothing  else  in  life 
to  be  attained.  I  dare  say  the  most  of  them  are 
hustling  and  bustling  for  a  bare  living.  What 
a  great  town  this  is,  and  yet  young  fellows  like 
you  and  I  stand  a  much  better  chance  of  winning 
a  fortune  out  West  than  here,  I  think." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Carbon. 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  smoke,"  said  Eilen, 
reaching  over  and  taking  a  cigar  from  a  half- 
filled  box.  "You  would  find  it  lots  of  comfort 
when  you  are  camping  out  in  the  open.  Lots 
of  times  when  I  have  been  a  little  down  in  the 
mouth  I  have  taken  my  old  pipe,  fired  it  up,  and 
felt  then  as  if  I  would  not  change  places  with 
the  richest  man  in  the  world." 

He  put  a  match  to  the  cigar,  puffed  a  few  times 
and  blew  the  fragrant  smoke  over  at  Jim. 

"Well,  I  may  take  it  up  some  day,"  replied 
Carbon,  sniffing  the  odor  of  the  cigar.  "I  often 
almost  weakened,  but  thought  it  was  an  unneces- 

o 

sary  expense,  and  so  held  out  against  it." 

186 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Well,  I  don't  think  we  could  afford  as  good 
cigars  as  these — a  pipe  will  have  to  do  for  us 
for  some  time,  I  guess.  These  were  given  to 
me,  else  they  would  not  have  been  so  good,  I'll 
wager." 

And  so  they  continued  on  talking  until  about 
four  o'clock,  when  Carbon  suddenly  arose  and 
said  that  he  would  have  to  go  if  he  was  to  catch 
his  train.  He  wanted  to  get  a  good  night's  rest, 
too,  for  he  had  slept  little  within  the  last  few  days. 

"All  right,  old  man" — this  phrase  seemed 
to  be  popular  with  Eilen— "I'll  put  on  my  hat 
and  walk  with  you  to  the  ferry.  I  have  nothing 
else  to  do  just  now.  To-morrow  I'll  do  a  little 
shopping  for  what  I  actually  need  for  the  present. 
Anything  I  can  get  for  you  ?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Carbon.  He  did  not 
want  Eilen  to  know  that  he  had  come  to  town 
with  no  clothes  other  than  what  he  had  on— 
it  would  create  some  curiosity  on  Clint's  part 
and  might  lead  to  some  questions  that  he  would 
not  like  to  answer. 

Arrived  at  the  ferry  they  shook  hands  and 
parted.  And  from  that  day  they  became  firm 
and  fast  friends — a  friendship  that  lasted  through 
many  years  of  privation  and  of  prosperity. 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-THIRD 

I  WAS  ticking  away  quietly,  down  here  in  the 
hallway,  when  Mr.  Maujer  and  Mrs.  Boosch 
returned  from  Richard's  funeral.  They  had 
come  directly  to  the  doctor's  house,  as  his  wife 
knew  that  he  would  delay  his  professional  visits 
until  her  return;  hence  they  did  not  go  back  to 
the  Broakley  home.  They  found  Myra  sitting 
by  the  window  and  the  doctor  was  reading  to  her. 

He  had  remained  by  his  daughter's  side  during 
the  time  that  he  knew  David  Maujer  was  con 
ducting  the  service  at  the  house.  When  the  solemn 
tolling  of  the  bell  of  the  church  at  the  corner 
made  known  to  the  folk  thereabouts  that  the 
cortege  had  arrived  there,  Myra  gave  a  start, 
as  if  her  heart  had  been  pierced  by  an  arrow. 
This  was  the  moment  that  Dr.  Boosch  had  feared. 
He  went  to  his  daughter,  put  his  arms  around 
her  neck,  and  clasped  her  tightly. 

"Myra,  Myra,"  he  said,  "be  calm.  Remember 
what  you  promised  me.  Remember  that  you 
said  you  would  put  your  faith  in  the  good  God 
above  and  that  you  would  hope  to  meet  Richard 
in  heaven." 

188 


Myra  gave  a  start,  as  if  her  heart  had  been  pierced  by  an  arrow 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

But  his  words  were  of  no  avail.  His  daughter 
broke  into  hysterical  sobbing  and  moaning,  and 
were  it  not  for  her  father's  presence  would  un 
doubtedly  have  leaped  out  of  the  window.  At 
length,  under  the  influence  of  his  soothing  words, 
she  calmed  somewhat,  and  notwithstanding  the 
flowing  tears  she  kept  up  a  brave  heart  and 
convinced  her  father  that  she  had  heeded  Mr. 
Maujer's  prayer. 

Mary  Lash  had  also  returned  from  the  funeral, 
having  gone  there  in  a  neighbor's  carriage.  She 
immediately  sought  the  Couterre  children  and 
began  talking  to  them.  There  were  three  besides 
Alice  and  Tom — two  girls  and  a  boy — and  Mary 
felt  for  the  little  ones  from  the  very  bottom  of 
her  good  heart. 

Jennie,  the  youngest,  three  years  of  age,  had 
been  her  pet,  and  it  was  seldom  that  Mary  went 
anywhere  that  she  did  not  go  over  to  the  Couterres' 
and  importune  them  to  let  Jennie  go  with  her. 
She  told  Alice,  but  not  the  other  children,  that 
the  doctor  had  informed  her  that  their  father 
had  been  arrested  and  that  he  would  have  to 
stand  trial,  probably  remaining  in  jail  for  many 
months  before  that  would  take  place.  She  tried 
to  assure  her,  however,  that  there  must  have 
been  some  terrible  mistake  and  that  ultimately 
he  would  be  cleared  of  responsibility  for  the  crime. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

She  was  talking  thus  to  Alice  when  Mrs.  Boosch 
summoned  her  to  Myra's  room.  The  doctor 
was  timid  about  leaving  his  wife  alone  with  their 
daughter,  lest  she  should  burst  into  uncontrollable 
grief.  He  had  thought  matters  over  during  his 
wife's  absence  and  had  concluded  that  it  would 
be  well  to  let  the  fact  become  known  at  once  that 
his  daughter  and  Carbon  had  been  married. 
He  knew  that  many  of  those  present  at  the  funeral 
must  have  wondered  why  Carbon  was  not  there. 
In  fact,  frequent  were  the  interrogations  as  to  his 
absence,  the  doctor's  wife  had  informed  him, 
as  it  was  well  known  that  Richard  and  Carbon 
had  been  warm  friends,  and  it  was  little  wonder 
that  they  marveled  at  his  non-attendance.  Mary, 
when  questioned,  answered  that  he  had  gone 
out  of  town,  she  knew  not  why.  Mrs.  Boosch,  also 
questioned,  likewise  said  that  he  had  suddenly 
gone  away  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself. 

And  so  Dr.  Boosch,  after  a  talk  with  his  wife, 
concluded  that  it  would  be  best  to  let  the  truth 
become  known  at  once.  They  decided  that  Mary 
Lash  should  be  the  first  one  to  be  informed, 
and  she  could  disseminate  the  news  as  she  saw 
fit.  That  it  would  travel  fast  after  that  there 
was  no  doubt. 

"Mary,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  wish  you  would 
remain  here  with  Mrs.  Boosch  and  Myra  until 

190 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

I  come  back.  Between  you  three  you  ought 
to  find  plenty  to  talk  about.  I  will  not  be  long, 
mother,"  turning  to  his  wife;  "I  know  of  no  case 
that  I  have  on  hand  just  now  that  will  detain  me 
very  long." 

He  came  over  to  kiss  her  good-bye,  as  he 
always  did,  no  matter  how  short  a  while  he  was 
to  be  gone,  and  as  he  did  so  he  whispered  a  few 
words  to  her,  to  which  she  gave  a  responsive 
nod  of  acquiescence. 

After  the  departure  of  the  doctor  they  talked 
about  various  subjects  until  finally  Myra,  tired  out, 
asked  her  mother  to  prepare  the  bed  for  her, 
in  order  that  she  might  lie  down  again.  It  was 
not  very  long  before  she  was  asleep.  It  was  then 
that  Mrs.  Boosch  saw  her  opportunity. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  you  know  that 
Carbon  has  gone  away  ?" 

"Yes,  the  doctor  told  me.  He  said  that  he 
would  never  return." 

"No,  Mary,  he  will  never  come  back." 

Mrs.  Boosch  hesitated  for  a  moment,  while 
Mary  looked  inquiringly  at  her.  It  was  a  crucial 
moment  between  those  two.  The  former  did 
not  know  exactly  how  to  let  Mary  into  the  secret, 
and  Mary  was  full  of  curiosity,  for  she  felt  that 
Mrs.  Boosch  was  inclined  to  be  communicative. 

Just   at  this   point   Myra  turned   around   with 

191 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

a  sigh  and  raised  her  hand,  which  dropped  limply 
back  upon  the  cover.  Mary's  quick  eye  detected 
the  strange  ring  upon  her  finger.  Going  over  to 
her,  ostensibly  to  smooth  out  the  coverlet,  she 
gave  a  hasty  glance  and  saw  that  it  was  a  wedding 
ring.  Quickly  it  flashed  through  her  mind — 
Richard  Broakley  and  Myra  Boosch  had  been 
married.  That,  then,  was  the  secret.  But  what 
had  that  to  do  with  Carbon's  going  away  so  sud 
denly;  with  his  avowed  intention  never  to  return  ? 

"Mary,"  said  the  doctor's  wife,  "sit  down 
beside  me.  Myra  is  asleep,  is  she  not  ?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Boosch,  she  is  sound  asleep.  This 
has  been  a  very  trying  day  for  her — this  day 
of  Mr.  Broakley's  funeral.  I  know  what  her 
love  for  Mr.  Broakley  was — " 

"Mary,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Boosch,  "there  has 
been  a  misunderstanding — a  terrible  misunder 
standing.  Everybody  thought  that  Richard  and 
Myra  were  engaged  to  be  married." 

"And  were  they  not?"  asked  Mary,  with  a 
startled  look. 

"Well,  yes,  in  a  way,"  responded  Mrs.  Boosch. 
She  was  still  groping  in  the  dark — groping  for 
a  way  in  which  to  qualify  events  without  casting 
any  reflection  upon  Richard  Broakley's  memory. 
She  well  remembered,  now,  the  conversation  her 
husband  had  had  with  Jim  Carbon  and  which  he 

192 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

had  repeated  to  her.  She  remembered,  also, 
that  he  had  told  her  that  Carbon  had  said  that 
the  more  he  would  be  condemned  the  lighter 
would  be  the  burden  that  Myra  would  have  to 
bear. 

She  glanced  over  at  her  daughter,  peacefully 
asleep  with  the  knowledge  that  her  mother  was 
by  her  side.  Yes,  Carbon  had  offered  himself 
as  a  sacrifice,  and  such  he  would  have  to  be, 
for  Myra's  sake. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  with  us 
for  many  years.  You  know  you  are  as  one  of 
the  family.  And  so  I  will  tell  you,  and  you  will 
be  the  first  one  to  know  it,  that  James  Carbon 
and  Myra  are  man  and  wife." 

"Richard  Broakley,  you  mean,  Mrs.  Boosch." 

"No — James  Carbon." 

"James  Carbon!"  gasped  Mary. 

"Yes,  they  are  man  and  wife,  by  the  grace 
of  God  and  a  minister  ordained." 

Mary  Lash  looked  at  Mrs.  Boosch  for  an 
instant.  She  doubted  her  own  senses. 

"James  Car-bon  mar-ried  to  Miss  My-ra  ?" 
she  said  in  monosyllables.  "  James  Carbon  mar 
ried  to  Miss  Myra  ?  You  are  mistaken,  are  you 
not,  Mrs.  Boosch  ?  Surely  you  mean  Richard 
Broakley." 

"No,   my  child,   I   mean   what  I   say — James 

"  193 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Carbon.  And  he  has  deserted  her  and  has  gone 
away." 

"  Deserted  her  ?"  echoed  Mary.  She  reiterated 
this  as  if  she  doubted  that  she  were  awake  or  had 
heard  aright. 

"Yes,  Mary.  And  you  must  never  question 
any  of  us  regarding  the  matter.  What  I  have 
told  you  is  all  you  or  any  one  else  will  ever  know. 
You  can  tell  any  one  you  wish  what  I  have  just 
told  you,  Mary,  but  be  sure  to  impress  upon  them 
that  they  are  not  to  question  any  of  our  family." 

Mary  Lash  had  become  ghastly  pale.  This, 
it  seemed,  was  the  climax  of  all  the  dreadful 
happenings  since  Richard's  death.  She  arose 
from  her  chair,  felt  the  room  going  around  under 
her  feet,  and  with  a  cry  sank  to  the  floor. 

When  she  revived  she  found  herself  lying  upon 
the  cot  the  doctor  had  placed  in  the  room  for  him 
self.  Mrs.  Boosch  was  seated  beside  her,  holding 
her  hand  with  motherly  affection.  She  looked 
at  the  kindly  face  before  her  and  said  sorrowfully: 

"Mrs.  Boosch,  I  am  broken-hearted — we  are 
all  broken-hearted — over  what  has  taken  place 
lately.  But  I  never  thought — I  never  dreamed — 
that  Jim  Carbon  was  anything  but  one  of  the  best 
men  that  the  Almighty  ever  put  on  earth  to  win 
a  woman's  love.  And  that  he  had  won  from  me." 

"Yes,   Mary,   the   doctor  told   me   that.     But 

194 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

young  hearts  like  yours  will  mend  in  time,  as 
Myra's  will  have  to.  Remember,  the  world 
is  wide  and  full  of  good  young  men." 

"True,  Mrs.  Boosch,  but  there  is  only  one 
James  Carbon." 

Mary  asked  if  she  could  go  down  for  a  cup  of 
tea  to  revive  her,  to  which  Mrs.  Boosch  responded 
that  she  certainly  could  and  that  she  might  bring 
up  a  cup  for  Myra  and  herself. 

When  Mary  came  down  into  the  hallway 
she  leaned  her  arms  against  my  poor  old  frame, 
and  the  floodgates  of  her  pent-up  heart  opened 
and  the  tears  flowed  freely,  some  of  them  dropping 
upon  my  face  and  rolling  slowly  down — like 
rain  upon  the  window  panes.  Dear  me,  how  I 
felt  for  that  poor  girl!  She  thought,  then,  that 
there  was  no  other  than  Jim  Carbon  could  ever 
take  a  place  in  her  heart.  She  little  knew  that 
time  assuages  all  griefs  and  heals  all  wounds. 

When  she  returned  with  the  tea  Myra's  mother 
said  she  could  go  out  that  evening,  if  she  wished, 
as  soon  as  the  doctor  returned.  She  had  in  mind 
that  through  the  medium  of  Mary  the  news 
would  go  abroad,  and  the  sooner  the  gossip  was 
over  the  better.  She  knew  full  well  what  food 
it  would  be  for  the  gossip-lovers,  but  she  knew, 
also,  that  it  would  soon  cease,  as  there  was  always 
something  new  to  supply  grist  for  that  mill  and 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  newer  events  quickly  overshadowed  the  older 
ones. 

So,  when  evening  came,  Mary  went  over  to 
Mrs.  Transer's  and  startled  her  by  the  news. 
And  later  in  the  evening,  when  Mary  Lash  had 
gone  home,  Mrs.  Transer  hastened  over  to  Mrs. 
Brownson's  to  tell  her.  The  latter  could  hardly 
believe  it — she  was  positive  there  was  some 
mistake.  It  could  not  be  possible  that  Jim  Carbon, 
who  had  been  so  good  to  her  and  her  children 
in  their  deepest  hours  of  trial,  was  guilty  of  such 
an  act.  But  Mrs.  Transer  assured  her  that  the 
story  had  come  from  Mrs.  Boosch  herself  and 
there  could  be  no  doubting  it.  Mrs.  Brownson 
grieved  deeply  at  the  news  of  Carbon's  having 
gone  away,  for  he  had  been  as  a  brother  to  her, 
and  she  would  miss  his  friendly  calls  and  his  wise 
counsel. 

She  could  not  reconcile  herself  to  the  belief 
that  Carbon  was  capable  of  doing  a  wrong  act. 
No  matter  what  others  might  say,  there  was  one 
who  would  never  utter  a  word  in  condemnation 
of  him — and  that  was  Mrs.  Brownson.  When 
ever  "Hank"  Decker  (who  was  prone  to  belittle 
others  in  the  eyes  of  the  widow  in  order  that  his 
own  good  qualities  might  stand  out  the  more 
boldly)  began  to  talk  in  a  disparaging  way  of 
Carbon,  she  would  say  to  him: 

196 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Mr.  Decker,  let  us  change  the  subject.  If 
there  is  good  to  say  of  him,  I  will  listen;  if  not, 
I  do  not  want  to  hear  it." 

My,  how  the  gossips  gossiped!  How  they 
put  this  and  that  together,  and  concluded  that 
there  always  had  been  something  suspicious  about 
Carbon,  though  none  could  specify  any  particular 
incident  that  would  have  made  them  think  so. 
They  spared  not  Myra,  either.  They  called  her 
a  flirt,  for  having  encouraged  Richard  Broakley 
when  she  knew  that  she  could  not  marry  him, 
and  even  intimated  that  he  had  probably  thrown 
himself  from  his  horse  with  suicidal  intent. 

But  in  a  short  while  this  all  died  out  and  another 
topic  had  sprung  up. 


197 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH 

MATTERS  in  the  Boosch  household  were  be 
ginning  to  assume  their  normal  condition  again. 
Arthur  Boosch  had  returned  for  a  short  stay 
home  before  going  upon  another  business  trip. 
He  was  both  grieved  and  shocked  when  his  father 
told  him  all  that  had  transpired  during  his  absence. 
He  said  that  if  he  ever  met  Jim  Carbon  in  his 
travels  he  would  greet  him  as  one  of  the  best 
specimens  of  manhood  he  had  ever  met,  and 
that  should  he  be  in  want  he  would  sell  the  very 
clothes  off  his  back  to  relieve  him.  He  said  this 
earnestly  to  his  father,  and  when  Arthur,  a  man 
of  few  words,  spoke  thus,  his  father  knew  that  he 
meant  much. 

Myra  had  regained  some  of  her  old-time  self, 
after  a  few  weeks,  and  was  now  beginning  to  take 
an  interest  in  worldly  affairs  again.  Her  father 
and  mother  were  with  her  almost  constantly— 
in  her  walks,  in  her  home,  in  her  moments  when 
her  grief  made  her  wish  that  she  were  dead  and 
with  her  Richard. 

But  how  changed  she  was!  To  me,  who  had 
seen  her  daily  from  the  night  that  the  doctor  had 

198 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

brought  her — a  new-born  infant — to  me,  up  to 
the  night  when  Carbon  had  brought  Richard 
home,  she  had  always  been  joyous,  happy,  buoyant 
of  spirit.  How  her  eyes  sparkled  when  she 
looked  at  me — they  fairly  danced  with  the  lightness 
of  heart  that  made  her  so  rosy-cheeked  and 
healthy.  How  lightly  she  tripped  across  the  hall 
way  and  out  onto  the  porch,  with  that  quick, 
springy  step  I  had  learned  to  know  so  well.  How 
musical  her  voice  had  seemed  to  me,  in  comparison 
with  my  deep-toned  note  as  I  sounded  the  hours, 
as  she  gaily  called  to  Richard  to  be  patient, 
that  she  was  only  fixing  her  hair  so  that  she  would 
not  look  like  a  fright — as  if  that  could  be!  And 
that  lithesome  figure  of  hers — never  had  I  seen 
another  so  perfect. 

And  now!  She  came  down  the  stairs  a  few 
days  after  the  funeral  and  gazed  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  thing  placed  there,  in  the  hall,  to  remind 
her  of  the  distant,  faded  past — though  it  had 
been  barely  a  week  since  she  had  last  seen  me. 
Her  step  was  halting,  as  of  one  who  was  afraid 
of  stepping  into  an  abyss;  her  eyes  were  lustreless 
and  full  of  sadness;  her  voice,  when  she  spoke 
at  all,  sounded  hollow  and  full  of  sorrow.  Changed 
indeed,  was  she!  It  seemed  almost  impossible 
to  me,  ticking  away  in  the  same  methodical 
way  that  I  have  through  all  joy  and  sunshine, 

199 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

sorrow  and  storm,  that  the  few  days  could  have 
wrought  so  complete  a  change  in  her. 

But  now  she  was  beginning  to  brighten  up  a 
little — as  a  lamp  lightens  up  after  the  wick  has 
been  trimmed.  Youth  and  a  naturally  buoyant 
spirit,  added  to  time,  it  seemed  to  me,  would 
overcome  the  blow  that  she  had  received  and 
restore  her  to  her  old  self  again — bruised  of  heart, 
it  is  true,  but  full  of  hope  for  the  future. 

My,  how  I  watched  her  each  day  for  many 
years,  and  noted  with  joy  as  little  by  little  the 
ring  came  back  into  her  voice;  as  her  step  became 
lighter;  as  those  eyes,  though  still  tinged  with 
sadness,  became  brighter  and  brighter  until 
one  day  I  saw  a  light  come  back  that  I  had  not 
seen  since  the  evening  of  that  tragic  night. 

Myra,  Myra!  Could  I  but  have  told  you  of 
the  love  that  was  yours  and  that  I  knew  so  well 
was  yours  only.  Could  I  but  have  told  you  that 
the  man  who  was  your  husband  had  for  you 
a  love  as  deep  as  that  of  one  you  mourned.  Aye, 
could  I  have  assured  you  that,  though  your  heart 
was  aching  for  a  dead  love,  there  was  a  living 
love  that  was  as  strong,  as  pure,  as  good,  as  true, 
as  that  of  Richard  Broakley.  But  I  am  only 
a  family  clock,  and  it  was  only  in  my  province 
to  tick  on  and  watch  the  developments  of  time 
and  fate. 

200 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Dr.  Boosch  went  about  his  professional  duties 
the  same  as  before,  and,  though  no  one  could 
say  what  sadness  there  was  in  his  heart,  tried 
by  his  manner  to  cheer  others.  Save  for  the  time 
that  he  was  away  on  his  calls,  he  was  ever  by  his 
daughter's  side,  encouraging  and  brightening  her 
by  his  words  of  cheer  and  comfort.  His  love 
for  her,  paternal  as  it  had  been,  seemed  to  grow 
stronger  and  stronger.  He  never  spoke  to  her 
of  Carbon — never  mentioned  his  name.  The 
time  would  come,  he  knew,  when,  the  wound 
having  healed  somewhat,  he  could  speak  to  her 
on  that  subject — when  he  could  lay  bare  to  her  the 
great  sacrifice  Jim  had  made — the  goodness  of 
the  man  who  had  stood  "  ready  to  be  offered." 

Mrs.  Boosch,  whose  faith  in  the  Almighty  and 
her  husband  was  such  that  she  never  despaired, 
no  matter  how  great  life's  storms,  went  about 
as  usual,  frequently  visiting  the  Broakleys  and  the 
Couterre  children,  spreading  by  her  benign  ways 
what  cheer  she  could. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Broakiey  had  not  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  their  son's  death — it  was  ap 
parent  that  they  never  would.  Had  there  been 
other  children,  the  loss  might  not  have  seemed 
so  great,  but  with  the  only  child — the  only  son — 
taken  away  so  suddenly,  they  practically  lived 
within  themselves,  seeing  no  one  but  Mr.  and 

201 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Mrs.  Boosch  and  the  minister,  and  were  literally 
grieving  themselves  to  death. 

David  Maujer,  minister,  was  a  busy  man. 
His  spiritual  comfort  was  needed  in  many  places — 
he  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere  at  the  same 
time,  it  seemed.  First  he  would  take  a  run  up 
to  see  his  dearest  and  foremost  friend,  the  doctor; 
then  he  would  steal  a  few  hours  from  his  busy 
life  to  see  the  Broakleys;  then  he  would  rob  him 
self  of  rest  by  driving  up  to  the  Couterre  house 
and  advising  Tom  and  Alice  and  going  over  their 
accounts  with  them,  telling  them  to  keep  him 
informed  of  every  move  they  made;  then  he  would 
go  to  see  "Bill"  Couterre  in  the  jail  and  pray 
with  him  and  talk  with  him  and  his  counsel  as 
to  his  case,  which  was  soon  to  come  up  for  trial. 
Besides  all  this,  there  were  his  parishioners  to 
look  after — the  poor,  the  sick,  the  dying,  and 
the  dead.  Busy  man,  indeed,  was  David  Maujer. 
But  his  work  was  God's  work,  and  he  tired  not. 

Mary  Lash  had  walked  about  for  some  days 
in  a  sort  of  dazed  manner.  It  was  some  time 
before  she  could  realize  that  Jim  Carbon  had 
gone  away  for  good.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
must  listen  for  him  at  mealtimes,  as  she  did  in 
the  days  agone.  How  often  and  often  she  had 
silently  wept,  as  in  the  evening  she  sat  alone. 
What  a  companion  he  had  been  to  her — bringing 

202 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

in  the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood,  reading  the 
news  to  her  as  she  was  clearing  off  the  table, 
doing  all  the  heavy  work  for  her,  and  escorting 
her  home  from  the  various  picnics  and  festivals. 
Small  wonder  that  she  missed  him!  But  she, 
too,  was  becoming  reconciled,  though  her  heart 
still  ached,  as  did  Myra's. 

The  Couterre  children  were  managing  fairly 
well.  Alice,  under  the  tuition  of  a  kind  neigh 
bor,  had  become  quite  a  "little  mother."  Tom, 
coached  and  encouraged  by  the  doctor  and  Mr. 
Maujer,  had  taken  up  the  burden  and  care  of 
the  farm,  and  had  proved  that  he  was  made  of 
stern  stuff.  The  younger  brothers  and  the  little 
sister  were  full  of  grief  for  their  dead  mother, 
but  Mary  ran  over  often  to  cheer  them  and  per 
form  such  duties  for  them  as  were  too  much  for 
Alice.  She  sewed  for  them,  made  all  of  Jennie's 
clothes,  and  in  other  ways  atoned  in  a  measure 
for  their  loss. 

Couterre  was  still  languishing  in  jail,  awaiting 
his  trial.  What  that  man  suffered  none  could 
tell.  He  felt  that  he  was  innocent  of  the  awful 
crime,  but  there  were  the  facts — the  circum 
stantial  evidence  was  so  strong  that  even  he 
himself  at  times  believed  that  perhaps,  in  that 
time  that  had  been  a  blank  to  him,  he  had  become 
so  crazed  with  liquor  that  he  might  have  committed 

203 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  deed.  And  so  he  suffered  mental  torture 
that  threatened  at  times  to  dethrone  his  reason, 
were  it  not  for  Mr.  Maujer's  words  of  hope. 

Matters  were  quietly  and  smoothly  drifting 
along  until  the  early  days  of  September,  when  the 
cool  of  the  evening  and  the  slight  tinges  of  color 
in  the  woodland  indicated  the  approach  of  autumn, 
while  here  and  there  the  fields  that  had  been  aglow 
with  the  ripening  grain  were  bare  and  stubbly, 
for  the  harvesting  had  divested  them  of  their 
richness  of  color.  The  barns  were  fairly  bulging 
with  the  fruits  of  the  toil  of  the  men  of  brawn 
who  had  worked  early  and  late.  The  hay  lofts 
were  stocked  with  fodder  to  keep  the  animals 
well  nourished  through  the  long  winter  months. 
It  had  been  a  good  season,  and  those  who  had 
sowed  well  also  reaped  well. 

It  was  one  of  those  cool,  tranquil  evenings 
when  the  sun  was  going  down  in  a  lurid  blaze, 
that  "Hank"  Decker  came  running  up  to  the 
doctor's  house  and  informed  him  that  Mr. 
Broakley  wished  to  see  him  as  soon  as  he  could 
possibly  come  over.  Mrs.  Broakley  was  not  feel 
ing  well,  said  Decker,  and  Mr.  Broakley  was 
somewhat  alarmed. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  doctor,  "wait  a  moment 
and  I  will  go  with  you.  I  saw  her  yesterday, 
and  I  thought  then  that  she  was  not  looking 

204 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

well — in  fact,  I  had  advised  Mr.  Broakley  to  take 
her  away  for  a  change  of  scene,  but  he  said  she 
would  not  listen  to  any  proposition  involving 
her  leaving  the  place  where  their  son  was  born 
and  raised." 

"She  do  be  a-takin'  Richerd's  death  purty 
hard,"  replied  Hank.  "I  hain't  seen  narthin'  of 
her  sence  the  day  he  wuz  buried  ontil  terday. 
An'  Mr.  Broakley,  he  be  a-neglectin'  of  his  work, 
too.  Ther  hain't  ben  much  done  on  ther  farm, 
I  kin  tell  yer,  sence  Richerd  died." 

"Mother,"  said  Dr.  Boosch  to  his  wife,  "I 
must  go  over  to  the  Broakleys'  at  once.  Decker 
just  came  over  for  me.  I  have  noticed  that  Mrs. 
Broakley  has  been  failing  fast  since  the  death 
of  her  son.  There  is  nothing  that  I  can  do — it 
is  a  disease  that  no  doctor  can  help — it  is  a  disease 
that  only  the  Almighty  can  cure — a  broken  heart. 
I  fear  the  worst." 

He  joined  Decker  in  a  moment,  and  they 
walked  briskly  over  to  the  Broakleys'.  Mr. 
Broakley  met  the  doctor  at  the  door  and  told  him 
that  his  wife  was  up  stairs  in  her  room  asleep. 
He  said  that  she  had  not  felt  well  all  night,  com 
plaining  of  pains  about  her  heart,  but  that  now 
she  appeared  to  be  resting  quietly.  He  said 
that  what  had  alarmed  him,  when  he  had  asked 
Decker  to  go  for  the  doctor,  was  that  her  face  had 

205 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

turned  a  peculiar  purple  color,  such  as  he  had 
never  seen  before. 

They  went  up  to  Mrs.  Broakley's  room  and  look 
ing  at  her  Mr.  Broakley  said: 

"See,  Doctor,  all  the  purple  has  left  her  face. 
She  is  all  right  now — she  is  sleeping  peacefully." 

Dr.  Boosch  stepped  over  to  the  bed  and  gave 
a  quick  glance  at  the  form  lying  there,  and  took 
her  hand  for  a  moment.  Then  he  listened  at 
her  heart  for  an  instant.  He  turned  around  to 
Mr.  Broakley,  who  was  rubbing  his  hands  to 
gether  in  seeming  pleasure  at  the  change  in  his 
wife's  condition.  Then  he  walked  over  to  him, 
took  his  hand,  with  the  other  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  with  a  voice  that  was  quivering  with  restrained 
emotion  said  to  him : 

"Mr.  Broakley,  good  friend,  good  father, 
good  husband,  your  wife  is  asleep — forever!" 

Mr.  Broakley  looked  at  the  doctor  with  eyes 
that  were  blank.  There  was  no  sign  of  the 
outburst  of  grief  that  he  had  expected — no  sign 
of  a  tear,  even.  He  released  his  hand  from  the 
doctor's  and  said  softly: 

"Dr.  Boosch,  it  is  His  will  that  she  should 
join  Richard.  It  is  better  thus.  I  am  alone 
now,  am  I  not  ?" 

"Yes — no,  not  alone.  The  Father  up  there 
is  with  you,  my  dear  friend,"  answered  the  doctor, 

206 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

who  was  alarmed  at  the  utter  absence  of  the 
breakdown  he  had  looked  for. 

Mr.  Broakley  walked  over  to  his  wife's  body, 
kissed  her  thrice,  and  calmly  went  down  to  the 
dining-room,  where  he  went  to  a  drawer,  took  out 
an  envelope,  and  handed  it  to  Dr.  Boosch. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "my  wife  asked  me  that  if 
anything  happened  to  her  I  should  give  you  this 
envelope.  I  know  not  what  is  in  it — I  care  not. 
You  will  make  the  arrangements  for  the  funeral, 
will  you  not,  Doctor,  and  you  will  be  sure  that 
Mr.  Maujer  conducts  the  services!" 

This  was  said  as  deliberately  as  if  he  were 
making  some  commonplace  business  arrange 
ment.  There  was  no  betrayal  of  emotion,  no 
visible  sign  of  grief,  no  wavering  of  the  voice, 
no  tear-stained  eyes.  The  doctor  glanced  at 
the  envelope  in  his  hand.  It  was  simply  in 
scribed  "To  Doctor  Boosch."  He  carefully  put 
it  in  his  coat  pocket  and  said: 

"Yes,  I  will  attend  to  everything — everything, 
my  dear  friend.  Mr.  Maujer  I  will  send  for 
immediately — I  know  he  will  come  at  once. 
And  you — you  shall  go  home  with  me." 

"No,  no,  no,  I  will  not  leave  her — until  they 
lay  her  away." 

Still  no  sign  of  grief — still  no  tears — still  no 
wavering  of  the  voice. 

207 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH 

WHEN  Dr.  Boosch  returned  home  he  informed 
his  wife  and  Myra  of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Broakley. 
They  were  both  shocked  and  grieved  at  the  sad 
news.  He  went  into  his  study  and  there  opened 
the  envelope  Mr.  Broakley  had  given  to  him. 
In  it  was  a  sealed  letter  addressed  to  "Myra 
Boosch."  He  called  his  daughter  and  handed 
it  to  her.  It  was  in  Mrs.  Broakley's  handwriting. 
She  tremblingly  opened  it,  as  one  who  gets  a 
missive  from  the  dead,  and  read  on  and  on;  the 
tears  falling  upon  the  pages,  until  she  reached 
the  end.  Then  she  folded  the  letter,  put  it  back 
in  the  envelope,  and  without  a  word  to  her 
father  went  to  her  room  and  locked  it  up  in  her 
writing-desk.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  and  prayed 
that  the  Father  who  was  watching  over  her 
Richard  would  take  unto  Himself  his  mother  and 
bring  them  together  in  that  heavenly  home  that 
knows  no  separation. 

In  the  evening  Myra  came  to  her  father,  and 
lovingly  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck,  looked 
into  those  kindly  eyes,  and  said: 

"Papa,  the  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Broakley." 

208 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,  my  child,"  he  answered,  "I  knew  that." 

"That  dear,  good  woman  in  that  letter  ex 
pressed  her  affection  for  me — her  love  for  me 
was  as  a  mother,  she  said — and  in  order  to  show 
how  deep  was  her  love  for  her  Richard  she  had 
written  to  me,  and  among  other  things  wished 
to  say  that  she  had  willed  me  the  pretty  little 
house  in  town  that  she  owned.  You  know  the 
house,  papa,  in  East  Stroudsburg  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  Myra — it  is  indeed  a  pretty  little 
house." 

"Yes,  and  she  wrote  that  she  hoped  that  some 
day  we  would  live  in  it.  She  expressed  the  wish 
that  when  she  had  passed  into  the  beyond  I  would 
take  care  of  Mr.  Broakley  and  be  a  daughter 
to  him — for  he  would  have  no  child  or  relative 
left.  It  seems  to  me,  papa,  that  she  felt  that  she 
was  near  the  end  when  she  wrote  that  letter, 
for  it  is  full  of  sadness  and  heartaches  for  Mr. 
Broakley,  whom  she  entrusts  to  my  loving  care. 
I  shall  go  to  the  funeral,  papa — I  shall  go.  And 
then  we  will  bring  Mr.  Broakley  home  with  us. 
You  will  make  him  stay  here,  won't  you,  papa  ?" 

"Such  was  my  intention,  Myra.  I  wanted 
him  to  come  with  me  this  afternoon,  but  he  said, 
'No — not  until  they  lay  her  away.'" 

Two  days  thereafter  the  friends  and  neighbors 
were  gathering  at  the  Broakley  house  for  the 

14  209 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

services,  which  were  to  be  held  at  two  o'clock. 
Mr.  Broakley  had  gone  about  in  a  manner  that 
was  not  at  all  understandable  to  the  doctor. 
He  exhibited  no  intense  grief  over  the  death  of 
his  wife,  save  that  he  appeared  as  a  man  who 
walked  about  in  a  trance.  He  rarely  spoke  to 
any  one,  and  was  almost  continuously  by  the 
side  of  his  wife's  body.  His  face  had  become 
haggard  and  worn  and  his  hair,  which  had  been 
sprinkled  with  gray,  had  become  white  within 
those  two  days. 

Dr.    Boosch   and   his   wife,   either  one   or  the  t 
other,  had   been   with   him   day  and   night,   con 
soling  and  comforting  him,  but  he  listened  quietly 
and   merely   answered:     "It  is   His  will — she   is 
with  Richard.     And  I  am  alone." 

That  was  all  he  said  when  any  one  spoke  to  him. 
Mr.  Maujer  had  called  almost  immediately  after 
the  doctor  had  notified  him  by  one  of  the  farm 
hands  going  to  town,  and  had  prayed  with  Mr. 
Broakley  and  urged  him  to  bear  with  Christian 
fortitude  the  awful  affliction  that  had  come  to 
him,  to  which  came  the  one  response — the  one 
refrain:  "It  is  His  will — she  is  with  Richard. 
And  I  am  alone." 

When  Myra  came  with  her  father  and  mother 
all  eyes  were  turned  upon  her.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  she  had  been  seen  in  public  since  her 

210 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

marriage  to  Jim  Carbon  had  become  known. 
She  passed  through  the  crowd,  heeding  not  the 
curious — and  sometimes  impertinent — eyes  that 
followed  her.  She  immediately  sought  out  Mr. 
Broakley,  who  was  in  the  back  parlor,  and  falling 
upon  his  neck  kissed  him  time  and  time  again. 
She  had  not  seen  him  since  Richard's  death 
and  was  astonished  at  the  change  that  had  come 
over  him — how  he  had  aged!  It  seemed  almost 
incredible  to  her  that  such  a  change  could  take 
place  in  the  short  time  that  had  elapsed. 

She  walked  into  the  room  where  lay  Mrs. 
Broakley  and  went  up  to  the  coffin.  She  saw 
there  the  face  that  she  had  known  so  well,  the  lips 
parted  as  if  she  were  smiling — smiling  at  some 
thing  Richard  had  said.  How  often,  Myra 
recalled  now,  she  had  wished  she  could  be 
where  his  mother  now  lay — in  her  coffin — and 
that  she  might  be  sitting  on  the  heavenly  throne 
with  him.  She  thought  of  the  letter  Mrs.  Broakley 
had  left  for  her  and  of  all  that  it  contained,  and 
a  great  sob  arose  and  the  tears  welled  up.  She 
returned  with  faltering  steps  to  Mr.  Broakley 
and  remained  by  his  side. 

The  last  of  the  mourners  were  arriving.  Mrs. 
Brownson  was  one  of  these.  Her  delay  was 
occasioned  by  the  artifice  of  "Hank"  Decker, 
who  pretended  that  something  was  wrong  with 

211 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  harness  and  that  he  had  better  drive  slow. 
This  would  give  him  an  opportunity  to  say  what 
he  wished  to  say.  The  fact  that  they  were  going 
to  a  funeral  did  not  deter  "Hank"  for  one 
moment  from  his  resolution  that  he  would  find 
out  how  the  widow  looked  upon  him. 

Shortly  after  they  left  the  Brown  son  house 
Decker,  who  was  driving  and  was  seated  alongside 
of  the  widow,  opened  the  conversation  on  a  topic 
that  was  so  near  to  his  heart — or  to  his  pocket- 
book,  perhaps. 

"Missus  Brownson,"  he  said,  letting  the  reins 
fall  lightly  upon  the  team,  "it  be  er  sad  mishun 
we  be  er  a-goin'  on  ter-day,  be'n't  it  ?" 

"It  certainly  is,  Mr.  Decker.  It  seems  that 
we  have  been  called  frequently  upon  these  sad 
missions  recently.  There  was  Aunt  Sarah  last 
May,  then  Richard  Broakley,  then  Mrs.  Couterre, 
and  now  Mrs.  Broakley — all  within  five  months." 

"Itbeorful  fer  Meester  Broakley,"  said  "Hank," 
hedging  around  to  the  point  he  wanted  to  make 
— loneliness.  "It  be  hard  fer  er  man  ter  be  left 
erlone,  Missus  Brownson,  but  it  be  moughtier 
harder  fer  a  'oman.  Er  man  kin  git  uset  ter 
bein'  erlone,  but  with  er  'oman  it  be  differunt. 
Be'n't  it  so  ?" 

"You  are  right  in  a  way,  Mr.  Decker.  A 
man  can  get  along  much  better  than  a  woman — 

212 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

that  is  if  the  children  are  grown  up  a  little  and 
can  help  themselves.  And,  then,  he  can  go  out 
and  see  other  folks  and  pass  the  time  some  other 
way  besides  being  in  the  house  all  the  time  and 
feeling  his  loneliness.  A  woman  should  not  be 
blamed  for  marrying  again." 

"Thet  be  ther  pint  I  were  a-goin*  ter  make," 
said  Decker,  evidently  encouraged,  "thet  be  ther 
pint  eggsacterly,  Missus  Brownsun.  I  hev  no 
ticed  thet  yer  were  moughty  lonerly  now  an' 
agin'  an'  hev  often  wondurd  thet  yer  did  not  sot 
yer  eyes  on  sum  good  man  thet  c'u'd  be  er  com- 
paneron  ter  yer  an'  help  yer  with  ther  farm." 

"I  have  felt  lonely  at  times  and  have  sometimes 
thought  that  Mr.  Brownson  would  not  want 

O 

me  to  go  through  the  remainder  of  my  life  without 
a  companion."  She  said  this  as  if  she  would 
qualify  herself.  Decker's  face  assumed  a  look 
of  pleased  surprise  at  this  sudden  admission 
of  the  widow  that  she  was  susceptible. 

"Missus  Brownsun,"  he  said,  his  face  radiant 
with  smiles,  "I  be  moughty  tickled  ter  hear  yer 
talk  thet  a-way.  Do  yer  know  yer  air  a  young 
'oman  yit,  an'  ther  be  menny  a  man  as  'd 
be  proud  fer  ter  hev  ther  honner  ter  lead  yer  ter 
ther  altar." 

"Mr.  Decker,"  said  the  widow,  with  a  blush 
overspreading  her  face,  "you  flatter  me.  But 

213 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

perhaps  some  day  I  may  make  up  my  mind  to 
marry  again.  I  know  a  man  who  will  be  good 
to  me  and  my  children  and  who  will  take  my 
lamented  husband's  place  in  my  heart.  And 
he  is  not  far  away,  either,  Mr.  Decker." 

"Hank"  turned  quickly  toward  the  widow 
and  looked  at  her  with  his  sharp,  ferret-like  eyes. 

"I  be  moughty  glad  fer  ter  hear  thet.  Pears 
ter  me  thet  yer  haint  got  fur  ter  go  ter  find  a  good 
man,  eh  ?  Ther  be  lots  of  'em  aroun'  yere. 
Men  thet  yer  know  be  good  an'  true,  too,  Missus 
Brownsun.  Mought  I  ast  yer  who  ther  lucky 
man  be  ?" 

There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind,  now,  that  she 
referred  to  him.  He  had  watched  her  interests — 
from  selfish  motives,  it  is  true— and  had  fairly 
doted  on  her  children — when  she  was  around. 
He  felt  that  "Hank"  Decker  was  a  wily  and 
shrewd  man.  He  had  played  his  part  well  and 
was  going  to  reap  his  reward,  he  thought.  He 
turned  to  the  widow,  his  eyes  fairly  dancing 
with  delight. 

"No,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Mr.  Decker — 
you  have  been  so  good  to  me  and  have  seemed 
like  one  of  the  family,  and  I  feel  that  you  will 
rejoice  when  you  hear  who  it  is." 

"I  suttinly  will  rejice,"  said  Decker,  who  could 
scarcely  restrain  his  delight.  He  had  permitted 

214 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  lines  to  fall  upon  the  horses  and  they  were 
going  along  at  a  slow  gait. 

"Well,  it  is  Mr.  Farson." 

"Farson!"  fairly  yelled  "Hank." 

"Yes,  you  know  he  and  I  were  school  children 
together.  And  we  were  more  than  that,  too, 
when  we  were  young." 

Decker  leaned  over,  picked  up  the  reins  and 
gave  the  horses  a  vicious  crack  with  the  whip 
that  startled  them  into  a  jump  that  almost  threw 
Mrs.  Brownson  out  of  the  carriage.  He  said 
not  another  word  until  they  reached  the  Broakley 
house,  at  full  speed. 

When  Mrs.  Brownson  entered  the  room  she 
was  surprised  to  see  so  many  present.  It  appeared 
to  her  that  half  the  population  of  Monroe  County 
had  come  to  pay  respect  to  the  memory  of  Mrs. 
Broakley.  She  was  surprised  to  see  Myra  there, 
also.  She  went  over  to  her,  kissed  her  affection 
ately  and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Broakley,  saying 
a  few  words  of  sympathy  to  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Maujer  arrived. 
When  he  came  in  Mr.  Broakley  stepped  over  to 
Dr.  Boosch  and  said  that  he  wanted  to  be  alone 
for  a  few  minutes  with  his  dead  wife — he  wanted 
to  bid  her  farewell  forever  on  this  earth.  He  said 
this  coolly,  dispassionately,  yet  the  doctor  hesitated. 
He  feared  lest  Mr.  Broakley's  seeming  calm  was 

215 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

merely  pent-up  grief  that  might  suddenly  give 
way  and  prove  fatal.  Finally  he  said: 

"  Mr.  Broakley,  do  not  give  way  to  your  feelings. 
We  will  leave  you  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
you  must  bear  up  bravely.  Remember,  as  you 
said,  she  is  with  your  son." 

"There  is  no  danger  of  my  giving  way,"  he 
said,  with  a  sad  smile  upon  his  face.  "I  am 
strong  of  will  and  self-possessed,  am  I  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  doctor,  though  still  fear 
ful  of  his  calm  demeanor. 

Mr.  Broakley  entered  the  candle-lit  room 
and  the  doctor  closed  the  door.  When  he  thought 
that  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  for  the  parting, 
Dr.  Boosch  opened  the  door.  As  he  did  so  he 
heard  Mr.  Broakley  cry  out: 

"Sweetheart!  Sweetheart!  Don't  leave  me 
alone!  Don't  leave  me  alone!  Don't  leave  me 
alone!" 

It  was  agonizing,  heart-rending,  to  hear  this 
appeal  of  the  white-haired  man  leaning  over  the 
coffin  of  his  beloved  wife — of  his  "sweetheart" 
still,  even  in  death.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the 
side  of  Mr.  Broakley,  who  gave  a  gasp  as  if  his 
heartstrings  had  snapped  asunder.  He  led  him 
to  the  old-fashioned  horsehair  sofa  and  there 
worked  over  him  for  some  time.  Finally  the 
doctor  emerged  from  the  room,  softly  closed  the 

216 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

door,  and  hastily  sought  out  Mr.  Maujer.  They 
held  a  hurried  whispered  conversation.  Then 
the  man  of  God,  turning  to  the  assembled  mourners, 
with  voice  that  was  low  and  tremulous,  slowly 
said: 

"Dear  friends,  kind  friends,  God  Almighty, 
in  His  divine  wisdom,  has  taken  Mr.  Broakley 
home  to  his  wife  and  son!  That  which  He  hath 
joined  together  He  let  not  man  put  asunder. 
The  funeral  of  Mrs.  Broakley  is  postponed. 
Let  us  pray." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  that  the  wave  of 
surprise  and  sorrow  at  his  announcement  might 
subside,  and  then  began,  softly,  his  voice  gradually 
becoming  stronger  as  he  poured  out  his  whole 
soul  in  that  prayer: 

"Heavenly  Father/*  David  Maujer,  minister, 
began,  "we  beseech  Thee  to  be  with  us  to-day — 
in  this  house  of  death.  We  ask  that  Thou  wouldst 
be  with  all  those  assembled  here.  O  Lord,  we 
grieve  not — yea,  we  rejoice — that  Thou  hast 
taken  unto  thyself  this  father  and  this  mother. 
We  rejoice  that  thou  hast  taken  this  father  and 
husband,  that  he  may  not  be  alone.  We  re 
joice  that,  though  he  be  dead,  yet  shall  he  live 
again,  with  those  that  he  loved  so  well.  Thou 
hast  called  them  home,  O  God,  that  they  may 
be  reunited  and  dwell  in  Thy  heavenly  kingdom 

217 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

together — father,  mother,  and  son.  Now,  Heavenly 
Father,  be  with  us,  that  we  may  learn  Thy  ways 
and  walk  in  Thy  paths  and  live  in  Thy  love — 
for  we,  too,  shall  some  day  be  called  by  Thee  to 
that  everlasting  home.  Be  with  us  that  we  may 
lead  better  lives — that  we  may  love  Thee  more — 
that  we  may  be  good  and  strong  in  Thy  faith — 
that  we  may  comfort  the  poor,  the  sick,  the  needy, 
the  widow,  the  orphan.  We  ask  this  in  the  name 
of  Christ,  our  Redeemer.  Amen!" 

After  the  prayer  Mr.  Maujer  announced  that 
the  double  funeral  would  take  place  two  days 
thereafter. 

And  on  the  day  after  the  morrow  they  were 
laid  away,  side  by  side,  in  the  little  churchyard 
at  the  Corner  where  slept  their  Richard. 


218 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-SIXTH 

GRACIOUS  me!  Here  I  have  been  ticking 
away  about  the  events  that  transpired  for  three 
months  after  Jim  Carbon  had  gone  away,  almost 
forgetting,  dear  reader,  that  you  would  wonder 
what  had  become  of  that  good  soul  that  I — and 
you,  too,  I  hope — had  learned  to  love.  There 
fore  I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  loneliness  that  over 
came  me,  of  the  void  there  seemed  to  be  after 
he  had  gone.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  how  often 
I  had  thought  that  if  only  Carbon  were  here, 
with  his  cheery  manner  and  his  ever-ready, 
unselfish  devotion  to  those  around  him,  how 
much  lighter  would  have  been  the  burdens  that 
were  borne  by  those  afflicted.  For  he  would 
have  spread  sunshine  where  there  was  shadow; 
he  would  have  brought  a  ray  of  hope  where  there 
was  despair,  by  that  bright,  fresh,  buoyant, 
hopeful,  Christian  spirit  that  pervaded  all  his 
doings. 

Ah,  me!  Perhaps  I  am  dwelling  too  much 
upon  the  goodness  of  you,  Jim  Carbon,  but 
I  cannot  help  it.  None  other  knew  you  and 
studied  you  as  I  did  from  the  time  you  came  here 

219 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  the  sad  hour  when  I  last  saw  you  pass  up  the 
stairs  on  your  final  trip  to  your  room.  None  other 
knew,  then,  that  though  you  were  absent,  your 
heart  was  still  here,  and  that  I  was  sure  your 
thoughts  were  often  upon  all — even  including 
me,  the  old  family  clock,  that  you  used  to  look 
at  so  cheerily  and  hopefully. 

Now,  now,  now!  Here  I  am,  drifting  away 
again.  And  so — 

Jim  Carbon  and  Clint  Eilen  had  met  at  the 
appointed  hour  in  Jersey  City.  They  each 
carried  brand-new  handbags  and  were  decked 
out  in  entirely  new  suits  of  clothes.  Carbon 
wore  eyeglasses — not  that  he  needed  them,  but 
they  would  help  somewhat  to  hide  his  identity 
should  he  by  any  chance  meet  some  one  he  knew — 
although  that  chance  was  remote.  He  had  a 
three  days'  growth  of  beard — black  and  stubbly — 
for  which  he  apologized  to  Clint  to  the  effect 
that  he  was  going  to  raise  a  full  beard  in  order 
that  he  might  look  like  a  "real  Western  gold 
digger."  They  had  two  hours  to  wait  for  their 
train  and  adjourned  to  a  restaurant  to  while  away 
the  time  in  eating  and  chatting. 

"Well,  old  man,"  said  Clint,  "this  is  our  last 
meal  in  the  East — I  wonder  for  how  long  ?" 

"It  will  be  my  last  for  all  time,"  answered 
Jim.  "I  do  not  want  to  come  back — never." 

220 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Come,  come,  Amos;  some  of  these  days  you 
will  have  your  pockets  full  of  gold,  and  then 
you  will  want  to  return  and  show  your  friends 
that  you  know  how  to  spend  money  as  well  as 
make  it.  That  will  be  the  time  you  will  come 
back." 

"Never.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  firmly 
and  determinedly,  Clint.  There  will  be  no 
wavering  from  that,  let  me  assure  you.  I  have 
no  ties  here,  and  should  I  be  fortunate  enough 
to  become  rich  or  even  fairly  well-to-do,  I  shall 
travel  over  the  world — but  come  back  East  again, 
never." 

"I  tell  you  what,  old  man,  I  will  wager  you  a 
big  diamond  ring — one  as  big  as  a  dishpan — 
that  some  day  you  will  be  taking  a  train  back 
here.  Is  it  a  go  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Carbon,  with  a  smile;  "but  first 
we  will  have  to  get  the  wherewithal  to  buy  one. 
If  I  am  no  better  off  than  I  will  be  after  I  buy 
my  ticket,  it  will  have  to  be  a  very  small-sized 
dishpan." 

"Well,  if  all  goes  right  the  wager  holds,  does 
it  not  ?"  said  Clint,  extending  his  hand  to  bind 
the  bargain. 

"It  does,  Clint,  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
you  will  lose,"  replied  Jim,  taking  his  hand  and 
sealing  the  contract. 

221 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"And  now  let  us  settle  about  money  matters," 
said  Clint.  "We  must  pool  our  cash,  for  it  will 
be  a  case  of  share  and  share  alike,  whether  we 
win  or  lose.  If  all  goes  well  we  will  draw  up 
partnership  papers;  if  not,  we  will  have  to  bear 
the  loss  equally.  Who  is  to  be  cashier,  you  or 

ir 

"I  would  just  as  soon  have  you  handle  the 
money — you  have  had  more  experience  than 
I,"  said  Carbon. 

"But  handling  the  money  is  not  the  only 
thing.  There  must  be  a  head  to  this  outfit — 
some  one  must  have  the  right  to  decide  when  we 
are  in  doubt — there  must  be  a  leader,  in  fact, 
and  we  must  agree  to  abide  by  his  decision." 

"All  right,  then,  Clint,  you  will  be  the  leader." 

"No,  that  is  imposing  a  task  upon  me  that 
I  don't  relish.  I  never  did  take  much  stock  in 
my  executive  ability — never  saw  any  one  else 
that  did,  either.  Let's  toss  up  a  cent  and  let 
that  decide — and  I  hope  I  lose." 

"Agreed,"  said  Jim,  "and  may  you  win." 

The  coin  was  tossed,  heads  Barcon  wins,  tails 
he  loses.  Heads  it  was,  and  pocketing  the  coin 
as  a  keepsake,  Clint  sprang  up  from  his  chair, 
put  out  his  hand,  firmly  grasped  that  extended 
in  return,  and  said: 

"Congratulate   you,    old    man — boss,    I    mean. 

222 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

You  are  to  command  and  I  am  to  obey.  Here  is 
my  money,"  handing  over  five  crisp  one-hundred 
dollar  bills  and  striking  a  semi-comic,  semi- 
serious  attitude,  "and  if  you  forsake  me  'twill 
be  proper  for  me  to  say  that  for  once  in  my  life 
have  I  misplaced  confidence  in  one  I  thought  was 
fair  and  square." 

"Clint,"  said  Carbon,  earnestly,  giving  him 
a  grip  that  almost  made  him  wince,  muscular 
man  that  he  was,  "no  fear  of  that.  I  pledge  you 
my  honor  as  a  man  that  you  will  never  regret 
the  day  you  met  Amos  Barcon.  We  shall  work 
together,  we  shall  share  hardship  and  privation 
together,  if  need  be,  and  if  it  is  God's  will  that 
prosperity  come  to  us,  we  will  not  forget  this 
moment,  when  we  swear  eternal  friendship, 
eternal  brotherhood." 

"Say,  old  man,"  said  Clint,  "you  kind  of 
touch  me  around  the  heart,  you  do.  Look  here, 
Amos,  I  want  you  to  feel  that  you  have  in  me 
from  now  on  a  sincere  and  earnest  friend — a 
brother.  God  bless  you!" 

Those  two  men  grasped  hands  with  a  grip 
that  spoke  more  than  volumes  of  effusive  promises 
and  verbose  language. 

"I  was  almost  going  to  ask  you  to  have  a 
cigar,  old  man,  but  I  remember  that  you  said 
you  don't  smoke.  However,  if  you  think  my 

223 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

smoking  won't  tempt  you  when  you  see  how 
much  I  enjoy  it,  I  will  fire  away  and  puff  until 
I  am  black  in  the  face." 

"Go  ahead,  Clint — you  may  tempt  me,  for  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  I  will  take  to  a  pipe 
when  we  get  to  digging  and  knocking  around  in 
the  open." 

"Good  boy!  Why,  when  you  get  started 
you  will  rather  give  up  eating  than  smoking. 
You  just  wait  until  you  are  laying  off  under  the 
blue  canopy  of  heaven — rather  poetical,  ain't 
I,  but  I  read  that  somewhere — with  your  bones 
all  sore,  your  muscles  aching,  discouraged  at  the 
prospect.  Then  pull  out  your  pipe,  light  her  up, 
and  watch  the  blue  rings  go  up  and  fill  you  with 
new  ideas  as  you  see  them  go  up,  up,  and  then 
fade  away — like  your  grouchy  feeling  does  after 
a  few  puffs.  By  the  way,  Amos,  do  you  know 
that  it  must  be  near  train  time  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  we  have  only  fifteen  minutes," 
answered  Carbon,  pulling  out  his  watch.  "But 
it  is  only  a  step  to  the  station  from  here." 

"Oh,  just  time  enough  to  write  a  line,  isn't 
there  ?  Lend  me  your  pencil,  old  man,  and  I 
will  drop  a  line  to  the  sweetest  girl  that  ever — " 

"What?"  interrupted  Jim.  "Why,  Clint,  I 
thought  you  told  me  that  you  had  never  fallen 
in  love  with  any  girl." 

224 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"  Did  I  ?  Well,  then,  I  was  trying  to  conceal 
from  a  man  I  knew  not  well  enough  to  entrust 
with  my  life's  secret" — here  he  paused,  and  there 
was  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  heretofore  flip 
pant  manner — "but  I  will  confess  to  you,  Amos, 
that  I  am  in  love  with  one  of  the  best  girls  ever 
born.  But  wait  a  minute  until  I  scribble  a  few 
lines.  Hardly  polite  to  write  with  a  pencil,  but 
I'll  start  it  off  with  '  I  take  my  pen  in  hand,'  and 
maybe  she'll  not  notice  it." 

He  wrote  rapidly  for  a  few  minutes,  took  an 
envelope  from  his  coat  pocket,  wrote  the  address 
on  it,  and  dropped  it  into  a  box  at  the  corner. 
Meanwhile  Carbon  had  purchased  two  tickets 
for  Chicago  and  ten  minutes  later  they  were 
speeding  on  their  way — full  of  hope,  of  health, 
and  of  vigor.  When  they  had  seated  themselves 
in  the  car,  Clint  resumed: 

"Well,  you  see  it's  this  way,  Amos.  As  I 
said  before,  I  am  in  love  with  one  of  the  sweetest 
girls  that  ever  breathed.  I  am  not  a  jealous  man, 
Barcon" — he  was  resuming  somewhat  his  ordinary 
frivolous  manner — "  and  so  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  her  name,  because  I  don't  think  you  will 
ever  meet  her — or,  if  you  do,  I  am  not  afraid  that 
you  will  cut  me  out,  for  we  wouldn't  take  a  prize 
at  a  beauty  show,  either  one  of  us,  would  we  ?" 

Carbon  laughed  outright  at  this  frank  remark. 

15  225 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"No,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  vein  of  humor 
that  was  intermingled  with  the  earnestness  of 
his  partner.  "I  certainly  would  not  be  able 
to  cut  you  out  on  that  score." 

"Well,  old  man" — he  could  never  divorce 
himself  from  this  favorite  expression,  it  seemed, 
— "the  name  of  the  sweetest  and  best  girl  is 
Florence — 'Flo*  I  call  her — Vercool.  Good  old 
Dutch  name,  isn't  it  ?  She  would  have  said, 
'Darling,  I'm  yours,'  in  a  minute,  only  up  steps 
her  guardian,  a  good,  fat,  sleek,  well-fed  pusson, 
and  cries,  'Halt!  Young  man,  the  chap  that 
marries  Florence  Vercool  must  be  able  to  show 
a  bankbook  that  will  assure  me  that  she  will 
never  want  for  anything/  And  down  comes 
his  foot — and  when  that  foot  comes  down  the 
earth  trembles,  and  so  do  I.  And  that  is  the 
reason,  Amos,  why  I  am  anxious  to  acquire  a 
neat  little  bank  account.  And  when  I  do,  old 
man,  you  will  be  my  best  man,  won't  you  ?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  replied  Jim.  He  was  trying 
to  conjure  up  in  his  mind  where  he  had  heard 
that  name  before — surely  it  was  not  such  a  common 
one  that  one  heard  it  every  day.  Florence  Vercool, 
Florence  Vercool,  where  had  he  heard  that  name, 
kept  constantly  revolving  in  his  mind.  Suddenly 
it  dawned  upon  him  that  a  young  lady  of  that 
name  had  spent  the  summer  a  year  ago  at  the 

226 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Marshall's  Falls  Hotel.  That  this  person  and 
Clint's  "best  girl  that  ever  lived"  were  one  and 
the  same  never  for  a  moment  occurred  to  him. 

And  so  they  talked,  and  read,  and  dozed, 
and  occasionally  they  would  go  into  the  smoking 
car  together  so  that  Clint  could  have  his  "consoler," 
until  they  reached  Chicago,  where  they  spent 
several  days  looking  around  the  town,  gazing 
upon  the  broad  expanse  of  Lake  Michigan, 
and  purchasing  some  things.  From  there  they 
went  directly  to  Denver.  Eilen  had  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Mr.  Henry  Houston,  a  mining 
broker,  having  an  office  in  New  York,  to  George 
Pell,  proprietor  of  a  hotel  and  part  owner  of  a 
silver  mine,  who  had  had  considerable  experience 
in  mining  and  prospecting,  and  this  proved 
of  vast  benefit  to  the  partners. 

Pell  was  a  big,  broad-shouldered,  muscular 
man,  over  six  feet  in  height,  and  was  so  constituted 
that  nothing  appeared  ever  to  ruffle  his  calm  and 
deliberate  manner.  He  took  quite  a  fancy  to 
the  "boys,"  as  he  called  Clint  and  Carbon,  and 
to  him  they  owed  much  of  the  success  and  pros 
perity  that  came  to  them  after  many  years  of 
hardship  and  privation — aye,  even  of  want. 

"Now  look  here,  boys,"  said  Mr.  Pell,  after 
reading  the  letter  of  introduction,  "  I  want  to  tell 
you  one  thing,  and  that  is,  don't  think  that  pros- 

227 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

pecting  is  a  kid-glove  affair.  You  have  hard 
work  in  front  of  you  and  a  hard  life,  too,  among 
hard  people.  You  want  to  take  shooting-irons 
with  you,  and  make  it  a  rule  never  to  allow  a 
man  to  get  the  drop  on  you.  When  you  see  a 
man  reach  for  his  hip  pocket,  get  there  first,  or 
else  you  will  be  the  leader  in  the  procession  to  the 
cemetery.  You  fellows  don't  want  to  hang 
around  ginshops,  either — keep  away  from  them, 
boys.  If  you  want  anything  in  the  line  of  liquor — 
which  is  a  good  thing  when  you  really  need  it — 
take  a  jug  with  you.  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  busy 
to-day,  but  to-morrow  I  will  give  up  the  whole 
day  to  you,  for  I  would  do  anything  for  Mr. 
Houston." 

When  Clint  and  Carbon  came  around  the  next 
day  Mr.  Pell  was  ready  for  them  with  a  two-horse 
rig  and  took  them  for  a  drive  through  the  country, 
describing  and  explaining  to  them  the  various 
mineral  locations,  going  over  the  beauties  of  Pike's 
Peak,  and,  in  fact,  giving  them  all  the  information 
that  would  interest  them  and  be  of  value  to  them. 

After  stopping  in  Denver  four  days,  most  of 
which  time  was  spent  in  purchasing  such  necessary 
articles  as  Mr.  Pell  told  them  they  would  need, 
they  started  for  Virginia  City,  whither  the  seekers 
after  silver  had  been  making  their  way,  and  some 
even  returning,  disheartened. 

228 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH 

IT  WAS  in  the  first  week  of  October  that  the 
case  of  the  Commonwealth  against  William 
Couterre,  charged  with  the  deliberate  murder 
of  his  wife,  Louisa  Couterre,  was  on  the  calendar 
for  trial  in  the  County  Court.  When  court 
opened  on  Monday  morning  the  room  was  crowded 
with  friends,  neighbors,  relatives  and  sympa 
thizers  for  Couterre.  He  had  been  liked  by 
nearly  all,  for  when  sober  he  was  inoffensive, 
obliging  to  everybody,  and  always  willing  to  do 
a  hand's  turn  for  any  one  in  distress. 

He  had  hired  as  counsel  to  defend  him  a  bright 
young  lawyer,  Leonard  Nash,  who  had  gone 
over  his  case  with  him  time  and  again,  but  with 
no  other  result  than  that  he  could  prove  nothing  to 
offset  the  overwhelming  circumstantial  evidence 
of  the  Commonwealth.  Nash  realized  the  futility 
of  attempting  to  refute  the  evidence  of  Couterre's 
own  children,  and  had  made  up  his  mind  to  make 
a  powerful  appeal  to  the  jury  for  acquittal  on 
the  strength  of  previous  good  character  and 
irresponsibility  for  his  act,  if  such  it  were,  owing 
to  his  maudlin  condition  due  to  over-indulgence 

229 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

in  liquor.  He  would  put  his  whole  soul  into  that 
appeal,  for  if  it  failed  he  would  be  helpless  to 
do  further. 

The  jury  was  composed  of  nine  rugged,  honest 
farmers  of  Monroe  and  three  substantial  business 
men  of  Stroudsburg.  They  had  all  known  Cou- 
terre  for  many  years,  but  had  sworn  to  render 
their  verdict  according  to  the  testimony,  regardless 
of  any  personal  ill  or  good  will  toward  the  man 
on  trial  for  his  life. 

When  Couterre  was  brought  in  there  was  a 
buzz  and  a  hum  that  was  instantly  hushed  by  the 
rapping  of  the  judge's  gavel.  Everybody  was 
astonished  at  the  marked  change  in  his  appearance. 
From  a  ruddy-faced,  strong,  robust  man,  his 
confinement  in  jail  had  reduced  him  almost  to  a 
skeleton,  while  the  pallor  of  his  face  was  in  marked 
contrast  to  his  appearance  before  his  incarceration. 
He  looked  around  appealingly  at  his  brothers 
and  children  and  many  friends,  and  sat  through 
out  the  entire  trial  with  bowed  head  and  trembling 
lips. 

After  the  usual  preliminary  court  routine, 
counsel  for  Couterre  and  the  District  Attorney 
announced  that  they  were  ready  to  proceed 
with  the  case. 

Mr.  Nash  opened  with  his  argument  for  the 
defense.  He  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 

230 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Commonwealth's  findings  rested  entirely  upon 
a  suppositious  case;  no  one  could  swear  that  the 
person  seen  coming  from  the  barn  was  Couterre; 
could  it  not  be  possible  for  some  one  to  have 
a  stormcoat  and  oilskin  hat  similar  to  the  one 
worn  by  Couterre,  and  could  it  not  be  possible, 
also,  that  Alice  and  her  mother  were  mistaken 
in  thinking  that  it  was  the  prisoner  ?  He  laid 
particular  stress  upon  the  fact  that  Alice  and  her 
mother  had  not  seen  the  shotgun  in  his  hands, 
urging  upon  the  jury  to  allow  no  theory  to  sway 
them  that  was  not  directly  borne  out  by  evidence. 
Finally,  in  closing,  he  said: 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  must  ask  you  to  bear 
in  mind  that  you  are  trying  a  man  for  his  life. 
I  beg  of  you  to  remember  that  this  man  was  a  good 
man,  save  when  drinking,  and  that  he  loved  his 
wife  and  children — that  he  worked  hard  for  them 
that  they  might  have  a  good  home  and  enjoy 
all  the  privileges  of  that  home.  Do  not  take  this 
man  away  from  those  children  and  leave  them 
fatherless,  as  well  as  motherless.  I  beg  of  you, 
gentlemen,  I  beseech  you,  I  implore  you,  to  restore 
this  man  to  his  little  family,  that  they  may  have 
his  protection — his  fatherly  care.  Think  of  how 
much  this  man's  life  means — not  only  to  himself 
but  to  the  motherless  children  who  are  struggling 
along  against  a  cold,  bitter  world.  Would  you 

231 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

take  them  away  from  their  best  friend  in  the  world— 
their  father  ?" 

The  first  witness  called  by  the  prosecution  was 
Alice,  who,  after  taking  the  oath,  was  examined  as 
follows : 

"Your  name  is  Alice  Couterre,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  lived  at  home  with  your  father  and 
mother,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  were  present  on  the  day  when  your 
father  quarreled  with  your  mother  and  when 
your  mother  was  shot — on  the  i8th  day  of  June  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  was." 

The  District  Attorney  then  told  Alice  to  tell 
the  jury,  in  minute  detail,  of  what  had  occurred 
on  that  day,  recalling  to  her  that  she  was  under 
oath  to  tell  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  to  which  she  replied  in  a  straightforward 
way,  turning  to  the  foreman  of  the  jury,  Mr. 
Milton  Fetter: 

"I  arose  about  half-past  six  that  morning 
and  went  to  the  barn  to  let  the  cows  out  into  the 
field.  My  father  had  been  drinking  heavily 
for  two  days  before,  and  as  he  was  usually  cross 
when  in  that  state  I  hastened  back  to  the  house 
when  I  saw  him  going  toward  the  barn.  He  had 
hidden  several  bottles  in  the  barn  somewhere, 

232 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  was  making  trips  from  the  house  to  the  barn 
every  once  in  a  while.  He  did  not  come  in  for 
dinner,  nor  did  we  see  anything  of  him  until 
supper  time,  when  he  came  into  the  dining- 
room  and  without  a  word  gave  my  brother  Tom 
a  blow  on  the  ear.  Tom  gave  him  a  shove  that 
seemed  to  anger  him  very  much  and  got  out  of 
his  way.  Mother  and  I  went  upstairs  to  keep 
out  of  his  way,  also,  but  he  followed  us  up,  abusing 
my  mother  and  accusing  her  of  having  turned 
his  children  against  him." 

"What  particular  remark  impressed  itself  upon 
your  mind  at  the  time  ?"  the  prosecuting  officer 
asked. 

"Father  said,  'I'm  getting  tired  of  all  this — 
my  own  children  are  being  turned  against  me — 
some  day  I'll  end  it  all." 

"He  said  this  as  he  was  going  down  the  stairs, 
did  he  not  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And   when   did  you   see   him   again  ?" 

"Not  until  some  time  after  midnight.  It  was 
storming  fearfully,  and  mother  was  getting  worried 
about  father.  She  woke  me  up — I  occupied 
the  bed  with  her  that  night — and  we  stood  by 
the  window  for  some  time,  watching  the  lightning. 
Finally,  during  one  of  the  flashes,  we  saw  father 
come  out  of  the  barn." 

233 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"How  did  you  know  that  it  was  your  father?" 

"I  saw,  just  for  a  moment,  that  he  had  on  his 
stormcoat  and  oilskin  hat." 

"And  what  occurred  thereafter?" 

"We  waited  for  a  moment,  mother  and  I, 
and  I  was  just  stepping  away  from  the  window 
to  go  down  stairs  to  unlatch  the  door  when  there 
was  a  terrific  crash,  and  a  second  later  mother — " 

Alice  stopped  for  a  moment  to  give  way  to 
the  tears  that  flowed.  Couterre  raised  his  head 
for  the  first  time,  glanced  over  at  his  favorite 
child  dressed  in  deep  black,  and  he,  too,  burst 
into  heavy  sobbing.  There  were  few  dry  eyes  in 
the  court  room,  even  Judge  Newman  cautiously 
reaching  under  his  desk  in  order  that  he  might 
hide  his  emotion.  When  she  had  calmed  some 
what  she  resumed: 

"Mother  dropped  at  my  feet  with  a  piercing 
scream.  She  had  been  riddled  with  shot.  After 
I  had  heard  that  awful  scream  and  seen  mother 
fall  down  I  fainted  away  and  did  not  come  to 
until  after  Tom  and  the  other  children  had  rushed 
into  mother's  room.  Then  brother  William  went 
after  Dr.  Boosch,  and  when  he  came  he  told  us 
that  mother  was  dead.  When  Dr.  Boosch  went 
back  home  he  took  us  with  him,  leaving  Tom 
to  go  for  the  undertaker." 

Here   Alice   burst   into   tears   again   and   there 

234 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

was  a  repetition  of  the  wave  of  sympathy  for  Tom 
and  Alice  and  the  other  children.  The  District 
Attorney  asked  her  a  few  more  questions — minor 
ones,  bearing  upon  family  matters,  and  then  an 
nounced  that  he  was  through  with  her  and  called, 
"Thomas  Couterre  to  the  stand."  Alice  stepped 
down  from  the  platform  and  going  over  to  her 
father,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  sobbed 
bitterly,  until  the  constable  gently  led  her  away. 

Tom  then  went  upon  the  stand.  His  testimony 
was  much  to  the  same  effect  as  that  of  Alice — 
it  related  to  his  father's  drinking  habits,  to  his 
father  going  on  the  trip  to  town  and  returning 
intoxicated,  to  his  father's  quarrel  with  him 
and  of  his  leaving  the  room  suddenly  in  order 
to  get  out  of  his  father's  way,  and  then  to  his 
mother's  awful  scream,  late  that  night,  bringing 
him  from  his  bed  to  her  room,  to  find  her  and 
Alice  both  lying  upon  the  floor.  He  described 
Alice's  words  when  she  returned  to  consciousness 
and  how  he  had  placed  his  mother  upon  her  bed, 
his  brother  going  for  Dr.  Boosch,  and  the  burn 
ing  of  the  barn. 

"Thomas,"  asked  the  prosecuting  attorney, 
"your  father  was  in  the  habit  of  keeping  a  double- 
barreled  shotgun  in  the  barn,  was  he  not  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  It  was  always  hanging  over  the 
oatbin;  it  was  always  loaded  and  ready  cocked." 

235 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Now,  Thomas,  tell  me  exactly  where  the  oatbin 
was." 

"The  oatbin  was  directly  by  the  window  fac 
ing  the  house,  so — " 

Here  Tom  drew  a  diagram  of  the  house  and  the 
window  where  his  mother  and  Alice  stood  that 
night,  and  of  the  barn  and  the  window  in  it. 

"The  barn  was  ninety  feet  from  the  house," 
he  said  in  reply  to  a  question. 

"How  soon  after  you  reached  your  mother's 
room  did  you  notice  that  the  barn  was  on  fire  ?" 

"It  was  burning  when  I  reached  her  room." 

"How  long  a  time  do  you  suppose  elapsed 
between  the  time  you  heard  your  mother  scream 
and  when  you  saw  the  barn  blaze  ?" 

"It  only  took  me  a  minute  to  get  to  mother's 
room — my  room  was  just  across  the  hall  from 
hers." 

"Did  your  father  come  back  to  the  house  that 
night  ?" 

"No,  he  came  back  the  following  day,  shortly 
after  Mr.  Brickett,  the  undertaker,  arrived." 

"When  you  saw  your  father  again — that  is, 
when  he  came  back  the  following  day — did  he  have 
his  oilskin  hat  and  stormcoat  with  him  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"That  will  do,  Thomas." 

Mr.    Brickett   was   then    called    to   the    stand. 

236 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

He  testified  to  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Couterre's  body 
was  fairly  riddled  with  shot;  he  was  positive  that 
both  barrels  of  a  shotgun  had  been  fired  at  her. 
He  also  testified  to  having  seen  Couterre  when 
he  returned  home,  and  was  certain  that  he  had 
his  stormcoat  and  hat  with  him.  Dr.  Boosch  and 
Mr.  Maujer  were  also  called  and  gave  testimony 
that  was  practically  the  same. 

Court  then  adjourned  for  the  day. 

The  following  morning,  when  court  convened, 
Mr.  Nash  attempted  by  cross-examining  Alice 
to  show  that  she  might  have  been  mistaken  about 
the  person  she  saw  leaving  the  barn.  It  was 
his  intention,  evidently,  to  attempt  to  prove  that 
some  person  might  have  been  an  enemy  of  Cou 
terre's  and  might  have  fired  at  the  figure  at  the  win 
dow,  supposing  it  to  be  he,  but  he  was  not  very 
successful,  for  Alice,  when  recalled  by  the  District 
Attorney,  said  she  was  positive  that  it  was  her 
father,  for  the  reason  that  she  had  stated. 

The  other  witnesses  were  taken  up  by  Mr. 
Nash,  and  under  direct  and  redirect  examination 
told  practically  the  same  stories  that  had  been 
elicited  by  the  District  Attorney.  The  remainder 
of  the  day  was  consumed  by  this,  and  at  three 
o'clock  counsel  for  Couterre  and  the  prosecuting 
attorney  announced  that  they  were  through  with 
the  witnesses  and  would  sum  up  the  next  day. 

237 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

On  Wednesday  morning  the  court  room  was 
crowded  to  the  doors  and  many  were  unable 
to  gain  admission  and  loitered  about  the  Court 
House,  eager  to  glean  whatever  news  could  be 
gotten  from  those  near  the  door.  It  was  rumored 
that  the  summing  up  would  be  short  and  that 
it  was  likely  that  Judge  Newman  would  charge 
the  jury  and  that  they  would  retire  for  deliberation 
before  nightfall. 

The  District  Attorney  began  his  summing 
up  immediately  after  court  opened.  He  called 
the  attention  of  the  jury  to  the  evidence  that 
Couterre  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going  on  period 
ical  sprees,  and  to  the  testimony  of  his  children 
that  when  under  the  influence  of  liquor  they  were 
afraid  of  him,  and  to  the  ugly  frame  of  mind  in 
which  he  was  on  the  night  of  the  crime.  He  went 
step  by  step  over  every  move  that  Couterre  had 
made  during  the  day  and  night  of  the  crime,  draw 
ing  upon  his  imagination  as  he  pictured  him  quar 
reling  with  his  wife,  going  out  of  the  house  in  a 
passion,  going  into  the  barn  with  his  brain  fired  with 
anger,  taking  a  drink  of  whiskey  from  a  bottle  he 
had  hidden  there,  setting  fire  to  the  barn,  taking 
the  gun  from  its  place  over  the  oatbin,  and  then, 
seeing  his  wife  at  the  window,  deliberately  taking 
aim,  firing  at  her,  throwing  the  gun  back  into 
the  flames  to  hide  the  evidence  of  the  weapon 

238 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

with  which  he  had  killed  her.  In  closing  he  urged 
the  jury,  in  the  interest  of  the  Commonwealth, 
to  find  a  verdict  of  murder  in  the  first  degree 
as  a  warning  to  all  men  of  vicious  habits. 

Judge  Newman  charged  the  jury  as  to  the 
law,  instructing  them  to  render  their  verdict 
impartially  on  the  strength  of  the  evidence  and 
not  to  be  swayed  by  any  emotion  created  by 
counsel  for  either  side,  and  the  jury  then  retired. 
After  four  hours'  deliberation  they  sent  word 
that  they  had  agreed  upon  a  verdict.  The  judge 
took  his  seat  and  told  Couterre,  who  had 
been  brought  back  to  the  court  room,  to  stand 
up. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  judge,  "have  you 
agreed  upon  a  verdict  ?" 

"We  have,"  said  the  foreman  of  the  jury. 

"  And  what  may  that  verdict  be  ?" 

"We  find,  your  Honor,  that  Mrs.  Louisa 
Couterre  was  shot  and  killed  by  her  husband, 
William  Couterre,  and  find  him  guilty  of  man 
slaughter  in  the  first  degree." 

Couterre  uttered  not  a  word,  but  sank  into  his 
chair  and  sobbed  like  a  child,  while  his  children, 
their  hearts  breaking,  cried  out  in  agony.  The 
judge  then  announced  that  he  would  pronounce 
sentence  upon  Couterre  the  following  Monday. 
On  that  day  Couterre  was  again  brought  into 

239 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  court  room,  and  Judge  Newman  said  to  him: 

"William  Couterre,  you  have  been  fairly  tried 
by  a  jury  of  your  peers,  who  have  found  upon 
the  evidence  that  you  were  guilty  of  wantonly 
slaying  your  wife.  The  sentence  of  the  court 
is  that  you  be  imprisoned  at  hard  labor  for  the 
term  of  your  natural  life." 

Couterre  looked  at  him  blankly  for  a  moment, 
his  emaciated  frame  shaking  like  a  leaf,  extended 
his  hands  toward  Judge  Newman,  and  cried  out: 

"My  God!  My  God!  Why  did  you  not  kill 
me  and  put  me  out  of  my  misery  ?" 

And  thus  ended  one  of  the  shortest  murder 
trials  in  the  history  of  Monroe  County. 


240 


TICK  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH 

CHRISTMAS  EVE!  Christmas  Eve  at  the  Boosch 
homestead!  My,  what  a  flood  of  recollections 
that  brings  back  to  me!  How  many  of  them  I 
had  seen  in  that  household  where  I  had  ticked 
off  one  after  another  of  those  Christmas  Eves. 
What  gay,  joyous  throngs  assembled  there  year 
after  year,  and  at  each  succeeding  year  how  it 
pained  me  to  miss  one  or  two  of  those  radiant 
faces  that  had  been  gathered  in  by  the  grim 
reaper. 

Christmas  Eve!  You  who  are  drifting  to  the 
sere  of  life,  what  a  multitude  of  memories  arise 
on  that  night.  How  well  you  recall,  then,  the 
very  odor  of  the  paint  on  the  Noah's  ark; — 
bringing  back  to  your  mind  your  childhood  days. 
What  a  treasure  that  was  to  you,  with  the  little 
sheep,  the  trees  that  looked  so  green  as  the  snow 
was  falling  and  the  wind  was  howling  without; 
the  cows,  one  of  which  invariably  had  one  leg 
broken;  the  shepherd,  with  arms  glued  to  his 
side;  the  milkmaid,  that  you  tried  to  marry  to 
the  shepherd,  only  she  persisted  in  falling  over  at 
the  most  inopportune  time. 

10  241 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

And  then,  when  the  night  had  waned  and 
you  had  fallen  asleep,  how  they  all  passed  in  review 
in  your  dreams — the  dolls,  the  ark,  the  dancing 
candlelights,  the  animals,  the  apples,  the  cakes 
and  candies,  and  all  the  tinsel  and  glitter  of  the 
old-fashioned  Christmas  tree.  You  wondered, 
then,  where  Santa  Claus  got  all  those  marvelous 
things  that  hung  upon  that  tree. 

And  that  first  set  of  dishes!  How  you  danced 
with  delight,  and  invited  all  the  dollies  that  the 
neighbors'  children  brought  to  that  first  tea 
party  you  held.  And  what  talking  and  gossiping 
there  was  by  the  mothers  of  those  dollies,  while 
the  fathers  were  in  the  other  room  putting  on 
their  military  regalia  and  practising  on  the  drums 
that  were  to  lead  the  warriors  on  to  victory. 

And  the  dolls!  What  dressing  and  undressing; 
what  trying  on  of  hats  that  belonged  to  others, 
in  order  to  see  how  much  cuter  they  looked  than 
in  their  own;  how  they  paid  neighborly  visits 
to  one  another;  how  they  stared  at  one  another, 
as  if  jealous  of  the  more  queenly  raiment  that  the 
better-dressed  ones  wore;  how  the  mothers  carried 
them  out  into  the  hallway,  so  that  they  could  look 
up  at  me,  ticking  away  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
their  joy,  hoping  that  I  would  be  running  slow  in 
order  to  prolong  that  evening  of  childish  pleasure 
and  delight,  and  said  to  their  dollies:  "Children, 

242 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

it  is  time  you  were  asleep.  Come,  now,  be  good 
children."  And  those  dollies,  with  a  cry  of  "Ma 
ma,  ma-ma,"  would  obediently  close  their  eyes  in 
slumber,  whereat  the  mothers  would  be  sorry  that 
they  had  gone  to  sleep,  for  this  was  no  night  for 
sleep,  and  would  straighten  them  up,  and  behold! 
all  eyes  were  wide  open  again. 

And  the  boys!  Johnny,  with  his  first  pair  of 
skates,  how  he  wished  the  night  were  over  that 
he  might  go  out  on  the  pond — the  shimmering 
lights  of  the  tree  had  lost  their  glamor  for  him; 
and  Willie,  with  his  drum,  which  emitted  ear- 
piercing  sounds,  to  the  older  folks,  but  to  him 
and  the  brave  warriors  who  assembled  at  its 
roll  it  seemed  as  though  it  were  muffled,  hard 
though  he  beat  it. 

And  then  the  older  folks!  Here  was  Uncle 
Henry,  stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet,  unraveling 
the  shawl  about  his  head,  and  carefully  wheeling 
around  as  they  helped  him  off  with  his  overcoat 
lest  they  should  see  the  parcel  that  was  so  flagrantly 
sticking  out  of  his  pocket.  And  Aunt  Em, 
walking  behind  him  bundled  up  so  that  only  her 
nose  protruded,  like  a  semaphore  on  a  lonely 
railroad  crossing,  carrying  a  big  parcel  that  she 
was  sure  no  one  could  see,  for  she  had  it  under 
her  wrap,  which  bellied  out  like  a  sail  in  a 
storm. 

243 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

And  here  was  Uncle  Ichabod,  with  a  sleigh 
for  little  Charley,  which  he  had  surreptitiously 
hidden  under  the  back  of  his  greatcoat,  so  that 
he  looked  like  a  malformed  camel;  and,  again, 
Aunt  Mattie,  with  the  inevitable  bed  cover, 
which  it  had  taken  her  three-  years  to  make, 
although  mathematicians  could  not  figure  out 
how  she  gave  one  away  each  Christmas  when  it 
took  her  three  years  to  make  one  of  them. 

And  when  the  horn  sounded,  calling  you 
children  down  to  the  back  parlor,  where  stood  the 
Christmas  tree,  radiant  with  a  myriad  of  candles, 
how  you  rushed  down  the  stairs  and  arrived  just 
in  time  to  see  a  pair  of  legs  that  looked  surprisingly 
like  Grandpa's  disappear  out  of  the  room — but 
they  could  not  be  his,  of  course,  for  was  he  not 
there,  out  in  the  hall,  at  the  very  end  of  the  proces 
sion  ?  What  clapping  of  hands,  what  dancing, 
what  shouts  of  delight,  as  each  one  received  his 
or  her  present!  "Just  what  I  wanted — I  wonder 
how  good  old  Santa  knew  that  ?"  they  cried, 
although  they  had  expressed  their  wish  for  weeks 
before  to  every  man,  woman,  or  child  who  would 
listen  to  them. 

What  chattering!  Mamie  was  telling  Katie 
that  her  doll  was  much  larger  than  she  had  ex 
pected,  while  Katie  said  that  she  wished  for  a 
doll  with  black  hair,  and,  sure  enough,  her  wish 

244 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

had  been  gratified,  for  there  was  the  doll  with 
hair  as  black  as  a  raven;  Jennie  told  Mabel  that 
she  had  wished  for  a  set  of  blue  dishes,  and  asked 
her  to  call  upon  her  and  bear  witness  that  she 
had  received  the  most  beautiful  blue  set  that 
ever  was;  while  Mabel  assured  her  that  the  coat 
she  had  received  was  exactly  what  she  had  wished 
for,  although  she  had  never  breathed  a  word 
to  any  one  that  that  was  her  wish — a  statement 
that  could  be  refuted  by  her  father  and  mother 
and  a  dozen  others. 

How  the  parents  looked  on  and  enjoyed  the 
cutting-up  and  the  pranks  of  the  children;  how 
they  watched  every  movement,  for  they  saw 
in  that  childish  gaiety  a  replica  of  their  own 
little  selves  in  the  years  that  were  agone.  And 
then  came  the  veil  that  dimmed  the  eye  as  there 
arose  the  misty  past — as  they  saw  the  spectred 
hosts  of  those  who  had  been  at  those  Christmases 
gone  by.  Each  one  could  close  his  or  her  eyes 
and  see  before  them,  sainted  and  throned,  some 
loved  one  looking  down  upon  them  from  the 
heavenly  realm. 

And  so  it  was  at  the  Boosch  homestead  this 
glorious  Christmas  Eve.  All  these  things — and 
more,  too — were  taking  place,  just  as  you,  dear 
reader,  have  recalled  them.  It  was  typical  Christ 
mas  weather,  too.  The  snow  had  been  falling 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

since  early  morning  and  was  now  quite  deep;  the 
wind  whistled  and  howled  as  if  it  would  keep  in 
unison  with  the  noise  of  the  horns  and  drums, 
though  it  was  not  a  bitter  cold  wind;  and  when 
the  door  was  opened,  how  the  trees  glinted  and 
glistened  in  the  light  shed  from  the  room. 

It  had  been  the  custom  of  the  Boosches  for 
years  to  have  these  Christmas  Eve  gatherings 
of  all  the  relatives — and  even  of  those  who  were 
not  related  and  whom  Dame-  Fortune  had  not 
smiled  upon.  And  this  year  the  party  was  in 
creased  by  the  addition  of  the  five  Couterre 
children,  who  were  so  delighted  to  be  where 
there  was  so  much  pleasure  after  the  many  months 
of  grief  and  loneliness,  without  father  and  mother, 
that  they  burst  into  tears  of  gratitude  to  the  good 
doctor  and  his  wife. 

And,  also,  there  were  present  the  three  children 
of  "Lew"  Felder,  a  worthless  and  shiftless  citizen 
of  Monroe  County,  whose  time  was  mostly  taken 
up  in  wearing  out  chair  seats  at  the  tavern  and 
in  talking  about  how  the  farmers  might  do  better 
if  they  ceased  from  working  so  hard  and  hoarding 
their  money,  but  spent  it  as  he  did — when  he 
had  it,  which  rarely  happened.  How  the  eyes 
of  those  poor  children  danced  as  they  came  into 
the  house,  with  all  the  lamps  a-going  full  blaze, 
What  a  revelation  to  them  to  see  something 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

brighter  than  the  clingy,  dull  little  lamp  that  they 
had  at  home.  And  how  those  little  hearts  ached 
as  they  tried  to  hide  their  feet  under  the  chairs 
so  that  the  children  who  were  so  beautifully 
dressed,  to  their  eyes,  would  not  see  them. 

And  when  Myra  handed  them  each  a  pair  of 
brand-new,  shining,  substantial  shoes,  how  they 
danced  and  laughed,  and  would  persist  in  kissing 
her  over  and  over  again.  And  when  they  asked 
her  if  they  could  put  them  on  next  Sunday  and 
she  had  answered,  "My  dear  children,  run  out 
to  the  kitchen  and  put  them  on  at  once,  so  that 
you  will  look  as  nice  as  any  of  the  others,"  how 
quickly  they  performed  that  task  and  returned 
with  faces  fairly  shining  with  happiness  and 
gratitude.  How  proud  they  were!  And  when 
Mrs.  Boosch  gave  them  each  a  pair  of  warm, 
fleece-lined  gloves,  their  cup  of  happiness  was 
filled,  only  to  overflow  when  the  good  doctor, 
beaming  benevolence  and  kindness,  reached  under 
the  tree,  pulled  forth  a  package,  and  lo!  there 
was  a  little  muff  for  "Teenie,"  a  locket  and  chain, 
with  a  wee  little  cross  on  it,  for  Ethel,  and  wonders 
upon  wonders,  what  is  this — sure  enough,  it  is 
an  overcoat — a  nice,  big,  warm  overcoat  for 
Lewis.  Doctor,  Doctor,  wasn't  it  worth  it  all— 
and  a  thousand  times  over  again — to  see  those 
faces  and  hear  those  shouts  of  delight  ? 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

It  was  about  half-past  eight  when  the  folks 
began  to  arrive.  First  came  Uncle  "Si"  Boosch, 
brother  of  the  doctor,  with  his  family — all  girls, 
five  of  them  there  were:  Laura,  and  Mattie,  and 
Emma,  and  "Jo,"  and  Anna — and  a  mighty 
pert  lot  of  girls  they  were,  too,  let  me  tell  you, 
full  of  life  and  fun  and  frolic.  Then  the  sleigh- 
bells  announced  that  another  party  was  coming, 
and  presently  in  came  Cousin  Hattie  and  her 
children,  and  then  Cousin  Edith  and  her  husband 
and  children,  and  then  Cousin  Austin  and  his  wife, 
and  then — but,  my  gracious,  they  kept  coming 
so  fast  that  I  really  couldn't  enumerate  them  all. 

Arthur  Boosch,  who  had  come  home  for  the 
holidays,  constituted  himself  a  "Reception  Com 
mittee  of  One"  and  stood  by  the  door,  shaking 
hands  with  the  men  and  kissing  all  the  women 
and  girls — showing  favoritism,  I  thought,  as  he 
kissed  them  in  front  of  me,  when  a  particularly 
pretty  and  vivacious  forty-second-or-something 
cousin  came  in,  shaking  her  light  curls,  wiping 
the  snow  from  eyes  that  sparkled  like  jet, 
and  pursing  up  her  red  lips  when  Arthur  said: 
"Well,  well,  Cousin  Frances,  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you,  I  will  have  to  kiss  you,  too,  the  same  as  all 
the  rest." 

And  how  she  wiggled  and  squirmed  to  get  out 
of  the  clutches  of  that  man,  who  was  strong 

248 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

enough  to  toss  her  over  the  barn,  it  seemed  to 
me.  My!  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  face 
when  he  released  his  lips  from  hers — I  have  never 
seen  anything  like  it,  except  the  harvest  moon. 
And  how  saucily  she  exclaimed : 

"Arthur  Boosch!     How  dare  you?     Don't  you 
ever  dare — if  it  wasn't  Christmas  Eve  I  would— 
She  seemed  unable  to  say  further,  owing  to  her 
(feigned,  I  was  sure)  indignation. 

"  What  would  you  do  ?"  asked  Arthur,  laugh 
ingly,  compelling  her  to  answer. 

"I  would  tell  mother." 

"Well,  then  I  would  have  to  kiss  her,  too," 
he  said,  and  as  that  person  came  into  the  hall 
just  at  that  moment  he  kept  his  word. 

Dr.  Boosch  was  the  "Inside  Reception  Com 
mittee,"  and  greeted  them  all  as  they  came  into 
the  back  parlor,  while  Mrs.  Boosch  showed  them 
upstairs,  where  Mary  Lash  had  formed  a  sort 
of  check  room  for  the  cloaks,  and  hoods,  and 
bonnets,  and  what  not  ?  Then  Arthur  got  the 
men  together  in  the  kitchen,  and  there  they 
smoked  and  drank  cider  and  talked,  while  the 
women  folks  sat  in  the  parlor  and  talked  of  clothes 
and  hats  and  meeting-house  affairs  and  sang  a 
few  hymns. 

Hello,  hello,  who  is  this  coming  now  ?  Why, 
I  thought  everybody  was  here.  Well,  upon  my 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

soul,  I  had  really  forgotten  David  Maujer — how 
could  I  ever  have  forgotten  him  ? — but,  then, 
there  were  so  many  about  me,  out  here  in  the  hall, 
that  it  is  little  wonder  that  I  did  not  miss  one  per 
son.  How  he  mingled  in  with  the  jollity  and 
almost  became  a  child  again.  How  he  romped 
with  the  children  and  joined  with  them  in  their 
games  and  their  play,  sitting  down  on  the  floor 
and  pushing  the  railroad  train  around  and  leading 
the  procession  of  the  armor-clad  warriors  going 
to  battle. 

The  children  were  all  in  Mary's  room,  feverishly 
and  anxiously  awaiting  the  call  for  them  to  come 
down  to  see  the  tree  and  receive  their  presents. 
And  when  Uncle  "Si"  blew  his  nose  in  his  red 
bandanna  handkerchief,  what  a  time  Mary  had 
to  convince  them  that  it  was  not  Santa's  signal! 
How  long  the  time  seemed  to  those  children  until, 
finally,  the  real  signal  came,  and  they  went  down 
the  stairs  helter-skelter,  like  sheep  following  the 
leader.  And  then — but  it  is  beyond  me  to  de 
scribe  the  joy,  the  happiness,  the  childish  dancing 
and  romping,  such  as  never  was  before. 

Myra  did  not  get  up  from  her  chair  very  often— 
she  was  tired  out  with  the  preparation,  she  said, 
and  did  not  feel  well.  I  knew  how  full  of  sadness 
was  her  heart  for  one  who  was  present  last  year, 
but  was  now  absent.  She  was  trying  to  keep 

250 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

up  as  long  as  possible,  for  the  children's  sake, 
but  I  could  see  her,  directly  across  the  room 
from  me,  and  knew  that  it  was  a  hard  matter 
for  her  to  do  so. 

Then  they  sang,  and  talked,  and  had  a  cup 
of  tea  and  some  sandwiches  and  cake,  until 
my  hands  were  pretty  close  to  twelve  when  Myra 
told  her  father  that  she  could  stay  up  no  longer 
and  would  have  to  retire.  Immediately  there 
after  the  sleighs  drew  up  to  the  door,  and  one  by 
one,  and  two  by  two,  and  three  by  three,  they 
shook  hands  all  around,  wished  the  doctor  and 
all  a  merry  Christmas,  and  departed,  their  laughter 
and  shouts  ringing  in  the  midnight  air.  It  was 
almost  two  o'clock  before  the  last  ones  left.  Dr. 
Boosch  went  immediately  to  Myra's  room,  while 
his  wife  and  Mary  Lash  turned  out  the  lights, 
and  thus  for  that  year  ended  Christmas  Eve. 

The  full  moon  was  out  now,  shining  down  upon 
the  peaceful  valley,  keeping  vigil  until  relieved 
by  the  sun.  And  the  glorious  sun,  rising  on 
the  morning  of  that  day  commemorating  the  birth 
of  our  Saviour,  peering  down  upon  the  snow- 
clad  fields,  turned  them  into  millions  of  scin 
tillating  diamonds,  while  pendent  from  the  trees 
hung  iridescent  icicles  like  prisms  hanging  from 
the  chandelier. 

And  Mister  Sun,  creeping  higher,  peered  through 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  curtains  of  Myra's  room  and  saw  her  in  bed, 
peacefully  asleep.  And  then  the  same  Mister 
Sun,  becoming  curious,  rose  higher  and  peeked 
closer  into  her  room,  as  if  to  dispel  all  doubt  in 
his  mind  as  to  what  he  saw  there,  until  he  burst 
forth  into  a  blaze  of  glory  and  smiled  benignly 
as  his  rays  spread  over  something  nestled  close  to 
Myra's  breast — her  new-born  child,  her  daughter. 


252 


TICK  THE  TWENTr-NINTH 

FIVE  YEARS  later,  on  the  eighteenth  day  of  June, 
the  fifth  anniversary  of  the  passing  out  of  existence 
of  James  Carbon,  there  was  seated  in  the  office 
of  the  Cornelia  Mining  Company  in  Denver, 
deep  in  thought  and  gazing  out  upon  the  throng 
that  was  passing  to  and  fro,  the  president,  Mr. 
Amos  Barcon.  The  office  was  substantially  fur 
nished  and  was  in  the  Cornelia  Building,  which 
was  devoted  entirely  to  the  offices  of  the  com 
pany.  Ascending  the  wide  marble  stairway, 
a  few  steps  up,  to  the  right,  one  was  confronted 
by  two  doors.  On  the  frosted  glass  of  one  was 
painted  in  plain  black  letters  "Amos  Barcon, 
President,"  on  the  other  "Clinton  Eilen,  Vice- 
President." 

Amos  Barcon  was  thinking  of  the  past.  He 
went  to  the  door,  locked  it,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  reverie.  His  thoughts  drifted  back  to  his 
early  childhood  and  youth  on  the  farm;  he  pictured 
himself  as  a  happy  farmer's  boy,  with  never  a 
care  and  having  a  constitution  that  enabled 
him  to  perform  the  hard  work  his  struggling 
parents  were  compelled  to  call  upon  him  to  do. 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Then  his  memory  carried  him  on  to  the  death 
of  his  father  and  mother  and  the  breaking  up 
of  the  home  and  to  his  drifting  about  until  he 
finally  came  to  the  Boosch  homestead.  Ah, 
what  a  happy  day  that  had  been  for  him,  and 
how  many  other  happy  days  had  followed. 

Then  his  mind  drifted  to  the  various  episodes 
that  had  taken  place  during  his  stay  there — of 
how  he  had  worshiped  the  very  ground  that 
Myra  Boosch  had  trod.  His  heart  beat  rapidly 
as  he  thought  of  her  kind,  loving  ways,  of  her 
graciousness  to  him,  hired  man  only  though  he 
was,  and  of  the  love  that  had  sprung  up  in  his 
heart,  unbidden  by  him,  for  one  he  knew  was 
to  be  the  wife  of  another.  He  thought  of  good 
Mary  Lash  and  the  many  pleasant  evenings  they 
had  spent  together  after  the  toil  of  the  day  was 
over;  he  thought  of  the  strawrides,  of  the  festivals, 
the  prayer  meetings,  the  sleighing  parties,  and 
of  the  boys  and  girls  who  attended  them.  He 
wondered  if  Tom  had  married  Jane,  if  Robert  had 
married  Laura,  and  so  on;  he  wondered  if  Bessie 
Newton,  the  little  rogue  who  was  responsible 
for  all  the  pranks  that  had  been  played  at  the 
various  outings,  had  become  a  sedate  matron 
and  had  been  married  to  Charley  Walker,  who 
was  forever  in  trouble  on  account  of  her  frivolity. 
What  gay  times  those  had  been ! 

254 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

He  thought  of  good  Dr.  Boosch  and  of  Mrs. 
Boosch;  he  hoped  they  were  well  and  happy,  as 
they  deserved  to  be,  if  ever  mortals  did;  he 
thought  of  Arthur  and  his  goodness  to  him  when 
he  first  came  to  the  Boosches,  full  of  grief  over 
the  loss  of  his  parents — of  how  he  had  been  a 
companion  to  him,  ever  ready  with  a  word  of 
cheer.  He  wondered  how  Mrs.  Brownson  was 
getting  along  and  if  she  had  married  again,  and 
if  so,  was  it  "Hank"  Decker  who  had  won  the 
prize.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  Decker's 
aspirations  and  of  his  reference  to  his  own  good 
looks  and  his  youthfulness,  on  that  day  when  he 
had  last  seen  him.  He  gazed  pensively  as  they 
passed  in  review  in  his  living  memory. 

He  heaved  a  sigh  as  the  vision  of  the  tragic 
death  of  Richard  Broakley  rose  up  before  him. 
What  changes  were  caused  by  his  death — how 
it  had  changed  his  own  life  and  career.  And 
Richard's  parents,  how  had  they  survived  the 
awful  shock  of  his  sudden  taking  away  ?  He 
hoped  that  God  had  been  merciful  to  them  and 
had  healed  the  wound  and  that  they  were  ending 
their  days  in  peace  and  prosperity.  How  well 
he  remembered  the  last  sight  he  had  of  Mr. 
Broakley,  as  he  saw  him  tottering  from  the  barn 
to  the  house  to  break  the  news  to  his  wife.  And 
from  that  on  his  memory  went  to  the  night  that 

255 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

he  drove  to  town  for  Mr.  Maujer  and  of  the 
wedding.  What  a  storm  that  was — he  had  been 
in  many  a  storm  since  then,  but  none  compared 
with  that  one.  He  remembered,  as  if  it  were 
but  yesterday,  how  he  had  stood  on  the  porch 
steps,  hesitating  whether  he  should  knock  at  the 
door  and  ask  for  his  stormcoat.  All  these  things, 
and  more,  too,  were  passing  through  the  mind 
of  the  man  gazing  out  at  the  hurrying  throngs. 

Then  he  thought  long  of  his  marriage  to  Myra 
Boosch — Mrs.  James  Carbon.  He  had  steeled 
himself — had  hardly  permitted  himself  to  think 
of  her — lest  he  might  some  day  wish  to  go  back 
and  see  the  old  place  and  the  old  faces  again; 
he  saw  before  him  her  sweet  face,  radiant  with 
joy  and  happiness  at  the  sight  of  Richard  as  he 
drove  up  the  lane  on  the  afternoon  of  that  eventful 
day;  .his  heart  ached  as  he  thought  of  her  cry 
of  agony  when  the  doctor  had  announced  to  Mary 
Lash  and  himself  that  Richard  Broakley  was 
dead.  How  had  she  recovered  ?  When  had  she 
secured  her  divorce  from  him,  and  would  she  ever 
marry  again  ?  Had  she  been  blessed  with  a  son 
or  a  daughter  ?  These  and  a  hundred  other 
questions  arose  in  his  brain. 

And  his  room  and  his  Bible  ?  Had  the  good 
doctor  given  his  things  to  some  poor  and  needy 
person  ?  He  hoped  so.  He  felt  sure  that  the 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

doctor  would  keep  his  Bible  for  him — some 
day,  perhaps,  in  the  far  future,  he  would  send  for 
it. 

Mr.  Amos  Barcon  stepped  over  to  a  drawer 
in  the  oak  desk  and  took  from  a  box  a  cigar — 
a  luxury  that  Jim  Carbon  had  never  indulged 
in.  He  returned  to  his  seat  by  the  window, 
lighted  the  cigar,  and  puffed  away  with  evident 
relish.  As  the  wreaths  of  smoke  ascended  he 
saw  Clint  Eilen  and  himself  meeting  at  the  station 
in  Jersey  City  and  then  traveling  westward; 
he  saw  them  working  and  slaving  for  three  years 
afterward — grubbing,  digging,  tunneling,  working 
in  mine  shafts  day  after  day,  week  after  week, 
month  after  month,  with  heart-breaking  unsuccess; 
he  saw  them  struggling  along,  penniless,  after 
their  funds  had  given  out,  hungry  and  in  want 
sometimes,  while  around  them  were  men  becoming 
affluent,  wealthy,  rich  as  nabobs,  in  a  night, 
almost,  from  some  newly  discovered  vein;  he 
saw  them  working  away,  on  the  advice  of  George 
Pell,  on  a  blind  lead  near  the  Comstock  lode, 
on  the  outskirts  of  Virginia  City — blasting,  shovel 
ing,  picking;  he  heard  Amos  Barcon,  discouraged, 
pleading  with  Clinton  Eilen  to  give  up  the  quest 
for  silver  and  to  go  elsewhere  and  secure  work 
at  something;  he  heard  Clinton,  with  his  "Flo" 
ever  in  his  mind,  cheerfully  say,  "Old  man,  I 

257 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

came  here  to  make  enough  to  win  over  '  Flo's  * 
guardian,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  or  die  here." 

Mr.  Amos  Barcon,  his  thoughts  flitting  over 
the  past,  had  smoked  so  rapidly  that  his  cigar 
had  burned  almost  to  the  end.  He  again  arose, 
took  out  another,  reseated  himself,  and  once  more 
the  wreaths  ascended  and  the  flow  of  memories 
continued.  He  saw,  again,  picking  up  his  vein 
of  thought,  Amos  Barcon,  one  day  in  October  of 
the  third  year  of  their  mining,  stooping  over  and 
with  an  exclamation  picking  up  a  handful  of 
dirt,  mixed  with  red  clay — black  decomposed 
dirt  it  seemed  to  him  at  first — but  upon  closer 
and  microscopic  examination  it  exhibited  a  thick 
sprinkling  of  "  native "  silver;  he  saw  Clinton 
Eilen  dance  a  war  dance  and  heard  him  emit 
a  whoop  as  they  ground  the  handful  of  dirt  up 
in  a  mortar,  washed  it  out  in  a  horn  spoon,  and 
when  they  saw  the  result  they  had  thrown  their 
arms  about  each  other's  necks  and  had  wept 
from  sheer  joy,  for  they  were  sure  that  the  Cornelia 
Mine,  which  they  had  located  and  which  was 
named  in  memory  of  Barcon's  mother,  would  be 
the  means  of  making  them  rich  men. 

And  Amos  Barcon,  smoking  on,  saw  in  the 
wreaths  of  smoke,  Clinton  Eilen  and  himself 
gradually  selling  stock  at  what  would  have  seemed 
to  them  fabulous  prices  months  ago,  but  retaining 

258 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

sufficient  to  give  them  the  controlling  interest 
in  the  Cornelia  Mine.  What  joy  Ellen  had 
exhibited  at  the  prospect  of  claiming  his  "Flo!" 
And  when  the  mine  was  sufficiently  developed 
and  in  such  good  working  condition  that  they 
could  entrust  it  to  a  well-paid  superintendent 
and  they  had  decided  to  have  the  main  office 
of  the  company  in  Denver,  what  rejoicing  on  the 
part  of  those  two — for  they  had  wearied  of  the 
scenes  of  their  hard  work  and  many  days  and 
months,  even  years,  of  disheartening  failure. 

And  now — now  that  he  had  become  a  well-to-do 
man — what  had  he  worked  for,  what  had  he 
endured  hardship  for  ?  Who  cared  whether  Amos 
Barcon  was  dead  or  alive  ?  Whose  heart  would 
break  if  the  Master  should  take  him  home  ? 
How  often  he  had  envied,  almost,  his  dear  friend 
and  partner,  as  he  saw  him,  sitting  by  the  dull 
glare  of  the  cabin  lamp,  writing  to  his  darling 
"Flo."  No  one  had  he  to  write  to — no  one  to 
whom  he  could  pour  out  his  discouragements, 
his  ambitions,  his  hopes.  Could  he  but  have  had 
the  pleasure,  the  joy,  of  knowing  that  some  true, 
faithful  heart  was  waiting  for  his  success,  how 
much  lighter  would  have  been  the  labor,  how  much 
more  pleasurable  would  have  been  the  reward 
that  he  was  reaping. 

Mr.  Amos  Barcon,  President  of  the  Cornelia 

259 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Mining  Company,  awoke  from  his  reminiscent 
mood  and  gazed  upon  the  desk  beside  him.  He 
saw  there  stacks  of  correspondence  that  needed 
attention,  reports  of  the  various  foremen  that 
were  to  be  examined  and  filed  away,  routine  work 
of  all  kinds  that  required  checking  up,  requisitions 
to  sign,  payrolls  that  needed  his  signature,  but, 
above  all,  pre-eminent,  rose  the  beautiful  face 
of  Myra  as  he  had  seen  it  on  the  day  that  she 
had  welcomed  him  at  the  old  homestead  and  had 
wished  him  many  days  of  happiness  therein. 

How  it  pleased  him — the  thought  that  with 
the  first  thousand  dollars  he  possessed  he  had  sent 
a  draft  to  a  certain  firm  in  the  city  of  New 
York,  drawn  in  the  name  of  George  Pell  in  order 
that  there  might  be  no  revealing  his  whereabouts 
even  to  strangers,  with  instructions  to  erect  a 
monument  in  the  little  churchyard  at  the  Corner 
in  Monroe  County,  Pennsylvania,  the  monument 
to  bear  simply  "  Erected  to  the  Memory  of  Richard 
Broakley."  And  in  one  corner,  in  small  letters, 
was  to  be  "For  Her  Sake."  He  wondered  what 
it  looked  like  and  if  Myra  and  Richard's  parents 
would  ever  for  one  moment  suspect  that  it  had 
been  placed  there  by  Jim  Carbon's  orders. 

Then  he  arose  with  a  sigh,  went  over  to  his 
desk,  looked  over  his  mail,  picked  out  one  letter 
that  bore  in  the  corner  the  legend,  "If  not  called 

260 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

for  within  ten  days  return  to  William  Wright, 
Attorney,  William  Street,  New  York."  He  knew 
full  well  from  whom  that  letter  came — Florence 
Vercool's  guardian — for  had  he  not  answered  Mr. 
Wright's  letter  requesting  information  as  to  how 
Clinton  Eilen  was  progressing,  for  Clint  had  re 
ferred  him  to  Amos  Barcon  ?  How  strong  he  had 
made  his  answer,  with  all  the  thought  of  the  wel 
fare  of  his  dear  friend  and  partner!  He  had 
written  that  Clinton  Eilen  was  one  of  the  best 
and  truest  men  in  the  world,  that  he  had  worked 
hard  for  years  and  that  he  was  now  in  a  position 
to  support  in  comfort  the  woman  for  whom  he 
had  expressed  such  deep  love  and  who  had  been 
his  dream  by  day  and  by  night. 

He  pushed  all  the  other  letters  back — they 
could  wait.  It  was  of  paramount  importance 
that  he  should  know  what  the  answer  to  his  plea 
for  Clinton  was.  He  tore  open  the  envelope, 
and  seating  himself  in  his  revolving  chair  by  the 
desk,  read: 

"My  Dear  Mr.  Barcon: — I  have  just  received 
yours  of  the  ninth  and  hasten  to  reply.  It  was 
with  great  gratification  that  I  read  your  letter, 
and  assure  you  that  I  have  no  hesitancy  whatever 
in  giving  my  consent.  I  have  this  day  forwarded 
a  letter  to  Mr.  Clinton  Eilen,  which  I  trust  will 
set  at  rest  whatever  qualms  he  might  have  as 

261 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  my  ultimate  decision.  You  may  rest  assured, 
that  after  reading  your  reply  to  my  interroga 
tions,  I  felt  that  it  was  the  culmination  of  what  I 
had  desired  and  hoped  for— to  instil  ambition 
and  enterprise  in  one  who,  I  felt  sure,  were  it  not 
for  the  fact  that  there  was  a  certain  goal  to  reach, 
would  have  fallen  into  a  groove  of  inaction  and 
lethargy.  I  thank  you  for  your  kindly  interest 
in  the  matter  and  trust  that  we  may  some  day 
have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  in  person.  With 
kindest  regards,  believe  me  to  be,  dear  sir,  most 
sincerely  yours, 

William  Wright." 

After  reading  the  letter  Amos  Barcon  walked 
over  to  the  window  of  his  office,  his  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets.  There  was  a  cloud  upon  his 
brow.  The  news  of  the  capitulation  of  the 
enemy— "Flo's"  guardian — would  bring  joy  to 
the  heart  of  Eilen,  but  Barcon  feared  that  it  would 
mean  a  separation  of  those  two  who  had  been 
inseparable  for  so  many  years— Eilen  and  Barcon. 
How  lonely  he  would  feel  without  the  cheery 
voice  of  Clint,  who  could  dispel  with  a  word  any 
gloom  that  might  be  cast  over  them  by  discourage 
ment  and  failure.  He  had  become  attached  to 
him;  he  honored  him,  respected  him,  and  though 
he  rejoiced  at  his  coming  happiness,  yet  he  felt 
a  sense  of  desolation  to  think  that  he  would  go 

262 


Pardon  me,  Madame,  but  did  you  drop  your  handkerchief  ? ' 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

away,  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  and  leave 
him,  for  some  time,  at  least. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  stepped  over  to 
the  window,  and  looking  out,  suddenly  gave  a 
start  as  if  an  apparition  of  the  dead  and  gone 
had  appeared  before  him.  His  eyes  fairly  blazed. 
Doubting  his  very  senses  and  his  eyes,  he  seized 
his  hat,  unlocked  the  door,  and  rushed  out  into 
the  street.  He  hurried  along  until  he  caught  up 
with  a  lady  walking  down  the  street.  Dropping 
his  handkerchief  as  a  subterfuge,  he  picked  it  up, 
and  extending  it  toward  her,  said: 

"Pardon  me,  Madame,  but  did  you  drop  your 
handkerchief?" 

She  turned  toward  him  a  pair  of  eyes  that 
revived  memories  of  the  past.  And  when  she 
answered  him,  the  voice  dispelled  all  doubt  in 
his  mind. 

"Thank  you  kindly,"  she  said,  "but  I  do  not 
think  it  is  mine." 

As  she  said  this  she  looked  up  at  the  black- 
bearded  man,  with  eyeglasses,  and  courteously 
bowed  to  him. 

Amos  Barcon,  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf, 
walked  hurriedly  away  from  her,  muttering 
under  his  breath: 

"Great  heavens!     Mary  Lash  in   Denver!" 


263 


TICK  THE  THIRTIETH 

WHEN  Amos  Barcon  returned  to  his  office 
he  dropped  into  his  chair  and  gazed  blankly 
at  the  wall. 

"  Mary  Lash  here !  What  in  the  world  brings  her 
to  Denver  ?"  he  asked  himself  over  and  over  again. 

Were  it  not  that  he  had  heard  her  voice  and 
looked  into  her  eyes  he  would  have  thought 
that  Mary  Lash  had  a  double.  That  she  had  not 
recognized  him  was  a  certainty — he  felt  a  sense 
of  relief  at  that,  to  know  that  his  disguise  was 
complete,  for  surely  if  she  had  not  recognized  him 
no  one  else  would.  He  was  so  overcome  with 
surprise  that  he  scarcely  knew  what  course  to 
pursue  in  order  to  find  out  the  reason  for  her 
presence  in  Denver.  He  was  perplexed,  over 
come,  by  the  discovery. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  in  bounded 
Clinton  Eilen,  holding  aloft  a  letter.  Eilen  danced 
about  the  room  as  if  he  were  a  youth  of  fifteen, 
his  face  wreathed  in  smiles.  He  dropped  the 
letter  on  the  desk  in  front  of  Amos  Barcon  and 
fairly  yelled: 

"Hooray!     She's  mine!" 

264 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Yes,"  quietly  said  Amos,  "I  know  that." 

"You  know  it?     How  did  you  find  out?" 

"I,  too,  have  a  letter  from  Mr.  Wright.  He 
told  me  what  his  decision  was." 

"Say,  old  man,"  said  Clint — it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  used  his  favorite  expression  in  address 
ing  his  partner  since  they  had  attained  the  dignity 
of  office — "can  you  spare  me  for  a  few  weeks 
or  so  ?  I  want  to  start  to-morrow  morning  for 
the  East." 

"I  think  we  can  arrange  that,  Clint,"  said 
Amos,  smiling  at  the  impetuosity  of  his  friend. 
"You  can  stay  away  for  three  weeks,  and  when 
you  come  back  I,  too,  shall  take  a  vacation  and 
go  away — probably  to  California." 

He  arose,  put  out  both  hands  to  Clint,  and 
giving  him  a  hearty,  earnest  shake,  said  to  him: 

"Clinton  Eilen,  my  dear  friend,  it  gives  me 
much  joy  to  congratulate  you  upon  having  won 
your  '  Flo.*  You  cannot  feel  how  much  happiness 
and  pleasure  I  wish  you.  Words  cannot  express 
how  much  and  how  often  I  have  prayed  for  this 
day,  when  you  would  come  to  me  and  tell  me  that 
you  had  won  your  prize.  May  God  bless  you 
both  and  may  your  days  of  married  life  be  long 
and  fruitful." 

"Thanks,  Amos,  I  know  what  you  say  comes 
from  the  bottom  of  your  heart.  I  only  hope 

265 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

that  some  day  I'll  have  the  pleasure  of  con 
gratulating  you." 

"No  fear  of  that,  Clint,"  he  answered,  with 
a  sad  smile.  "  That  day  will  never  come." 

"You  can't  tell,  old  man.  Some  day  you  will 
meet  a  bright,  loving  young  lady  who  will  make 
you  change  your  mind." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  meet  your  sweetheart  ?" 
asked  Barcon,  changing  the  subject. 

"She  is  stopping  at  the  Delaware  Water  Gap, 
in  Pennsylvania,  and  I  am  going  there  to  marry 
her  and  spend  a  little  while  roaming  around  that 
part  of  the  country." 

"Delaware  Water  Gap!"  exclaimed  Barcon, 
visibly  affected. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Clint,  who  had  noticed  the 
agitated  manner  of  his  friend;  "have  you  ever 
been  there  ?" 

"I  have  heard  of  it,"  Barcon  answered  coldly, 
evading  the  question  and  blaming  himself  for 
permitting  his  surprise  to  become  noticeable. 

"You  see,  Amos,"  continued  Clinton,  "I  have 
an  uncle  living  in  Stroudsburg,  Justice  Henry 
Eilen,  an  old  chap  almost  seventy.  He  took  a 
great  fancy  to  'Flo'  when  I  first  introduced  her 
to  him,  and  they  have  been  warm  friends  ever 
since.  She  likes  to  run  over  from  the  Gap  and 
visit  him,  for  he  takes  her  out  driving  and  gives 

266 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

her  a  good  time  generally.  I  have  been  at  the 
Gap  several  times,  and  a  mighty  pretty  place  it 
is,  too,  Amos.  You  ought  to  take  a  run  up  there 
and  see  it,  sometime,  when  you  go  East." 

"Yes,"  answered  Barcon,  who  had  now  shown 
no  further  visible  surprise  at  the  fact  that  his 
friend  and  partner  was  no  stranger  to  those  parts 
that  he  had  left  five  years  ago,  "when  I  do  I  shall. 
And  when  that  time  comes,  don't  forget  that 
you  are  to  get  a  diamond  ring  from  me.  But 
I  am  afraid  that  you  will  never  get  it,  Clint." 

Little  did  Eilen  suspect  that  the  man  he  was 
speaking  to  had  traveled  about  that  region  for 
years  and  knew  practically  every  road,  crossroad, 
yes,  even  the  lanes  thereabouts. 

"Clint,"  he  resumed,  "I  shall  miss  you  while 
you  are  away,  I  can  assure  you.  We  have  been 
together  now  for  five  years  and  during  that  time 
we  have  been  firm  and  fast  friends — we  have 
been  like  brothers.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  go, 
for  I  know  I  shall  feel  lonely  while  you  are  away, 
and  were  it  not  that  you  are  going  upon  such 
a  happy  mission,  I  would  almost  feel  constrained 
to  ask  you  to  abandon  your  trip.  But,  of  course," 
he  continued,  smiling,  "I  couldn't  do  that  under 
the  circumstances.  However,  let  me  tell  you  how 
happy  I  shall  be  to  welcome  you  and  your  bride 
when  you  return." 

267 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Thanks,"  said  Clint,  as  they  shook  hands 
again,  "I'll  see  you  to-morrow  morning  at  the 
station  ?" 

"You  certainly  will.  I  shall  be  there  to  wish 
you  good-bye  and  Godspeed." 

"Well,  au  revoir  until  to-morrow.  I  want  to 
do  a  little  shopping  and  packing  —  and  there  is 
something,  above  all,  that  you  can  be  sure  I 
won't  forget,  and  that  is  a  plain  band  of  gold 
for  her  dear  ringer.  Good-bye." 

He  fairly  danced  out  of  the  door,  his  face 
beaming  with  joy  and  happiness.  As  soon  as  the 
door  had  closed  Barcon  wheeled  around  to  his 
desk,  hastily  wrote  a  letter,  sealed  it  with  wax, 
and  ringing  a  call-bell,  gave  it  to  the  boy  who 
responded. 

"Take  this  at  once  to  the  Pinkerton  agency 
on  Market  Street  and  give  it  Mr.  Charles  Marks. 
If  he  is  not  in,  wait  for  him — do  not  give  it  to  any 
one  else.  Remember,  no  one  else." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  boy,  as  his  hand 
closed  on  the  coin  that  was  put  into  his  palm. 
Barcon  then  went  to  his  luncheon,  and  when  he 
returned  he  cleaned  up  his  desk  of  the  mass 
of  correspondence  and  routine  and  detail  work 
that  was  lying  about. 

The  following  morning  Barcon  and  Eilen 
met  at  the  station,  said  many  "Good-byes," 

268 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  as  the  starting  signal  was  given  Carbon 
handed  Clint  a  small  parcel  containing  a  diamond 
sunburst,  which  he  asked  him  to  give  to  Mrs. 
Clinton  Eilen  as  a  wedding  present  from  his  dearest 
friend  and  well-wisher,  Amos  Barcon.  He  sadly 
watched  the  train  as  far  as  he  could  see  it,  and  with 
a  sigh  returned  to  the  office  of  the  Cornelia  Mining 
Company. 

Three  days  later  Barcon  was  seated  at  his  desk 
in  his  office  when  a  boy  brought  in  a  card  bearing 
simply  the  name  Charles  Marks.  He  told  the 
boy  to  show  him  in  at  once  and  not  to  permit 
any  one  to  disturb  them. 

Mr.  Marks,  a  thin-faced,  sharp-eyed,  clean 
shaven  man  of  about  forty,  bustled  into  the  office, 
bowed,  put  his  hat  on  the  desk,  dropped  into  a 
chair  alongside  of  Barcon's,  and  blurted  out: 

"Well,  sir,  here  I  am." 

"Good,"  said  Amos;  "I  trust  that  you  got 
the  information  that  I  desired.  You,  of  course, 
understood  from  my  letter  that  the  matter  was 
strictly  confidential  between  us  ?" 

"I  did,"  answered  Mr.  Marks,  who  spoke  in  a 
quick,  jerky  manner. 

"Very  well,  let  me  hear  what  you  have  learned. 
You  smoke,  do  you  not  ?"  passing  over  a  box 
of  cigars. 

"Yes,  sir,   I   do — everything.     When  I   am  in 

269 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  company  of  gentlemen  I  smoke  cigars;  when 
I  want  information  from  thieves  I  smoke  cigarettes, 
and  when  I  have  a  detail  among  miners  I  smoke 
a  pipe." 

He  reached  over,  took  a  cigar,  lit  it,  puffed  a 
few  times,  watched  the  smoke  roll  up,  as  if  re 
freshing  his  memory,  pulled  out  a  small  memoran 
dum  book,  and  began: 

"The  person  about  whom  you  desired  informa 
tion — Miss  Mary  Lash — has  been  in  Denver 
a  year,  eleven  months,  and  two  days — 

"Nearly  two  years!"  interrupted  Barcon,  unable 
to  conceal  his  surprise. 

"You  will  find  that  to  be  correct — absolutely," 
said  Mr.  Marks,  referring  to  his  memorandum 
book.  "She  came  here  from  Pennsylvania — 
from  the  vicinity  of  a  place  called  East  Strouds- 
burg,  I  should  judge,  for  she  receives  letters 
bearing  that  postmark." 

Barcon  merely  nodded  for  him  to  go  on. 

"To  begin  at  the  beginning,"  continued  Mr. 
Marks,  "it  appears  that  Miss  Lash  had  an  aunt 
here  who  was  alone  in  the  world,  was  in  poor 
health,  and  received  a  pension  for  the  loss  of  her 
husband  in  the  army.  The  aunt,  Mrs.  Ann  Hart, 
had  written  to  her  niece,  asking  her  to  come  on 
to  Denver  to  comfort  her  declining  years. 
She  did  so  and  lived  with  her  until  the — let  me 

270 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

see"  (here  he  again  consulted  his  memorandum 
book).  "Oh,  yes,  here  it  is — the  twenty-third 
day  of  last  January,  when  she  died." 

Mr.  Marks  paused  for  a  moment  while  he  ran 
over  some  entries  in  his  book.  Barcon  had  taken 
a  cigar  and  was  smoking  and  listening  with  intense 
interest. 

"And  then  ?"  he  said,  to  urge  the  detective  on. 

"And  then,"  resumed  Mr.  Marks,  picking  up 
the  thread  of  his  investigation,  "Miss  Lash  found 
herself  almost  penniless,  for  what  little  money 
she  had  was  used  up  in  providing  comfortably 
for  her  aunt  and  in  giving  her  proper  burial. 
I  understand  that  she  has  seen  some  very  hard 
days  since  then,  Mr.  Barcon." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  want  to  find  out," 
said  Amos.  "But  how  did  you  get  this  informa 
tion  so  quickly  ?" 

"From  the  landlady  with  whom  Miss  Lash 
and  her  aunt  had  boarded — or  rather  from  the 
landlady's  husband,  who  is  a  shiftless  sort  of 
cuss  and  will  talk  as  long  as  you  buy  liquid  refresh 
ment  for  him — and  I  can  tell  you  that  I  bought 
as  long  as  he  would  talk.  Hardly  the  right 
thing,  I  suppose,  but  it's  in  the  line  of  my  business." 

"You  say  she  has  seen  some  pretty  hard  days. 
Tell  me,  was  she  ever  really  in  want  ?"  asked 
Barcon  eagerly. 

271 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Not  that  anybody  positively  knew,  but  from 
the  inference  of  Bucher,  her  landlady's  hus 
band,  I  surmise  that  there  were  times  when 
she  wanted  for  food." 

"  I  thought  you  said  she  boarded  with  them  ?" 

"Yes,  she  did  for  a  while  after  her  aunt's  death. 
But  I  guess  her  funds  were  getting  low,  for  she 
hired  a  little  store  with  a  room  in  the  back  and 
started  a  millinery  shop  with  what  little  capital 
she  had  left.  It  didn't  pay  well,  for  she  had 
little  money  and  most  of  her  stock  was — er, 
pardon  me — cheap  and  shoddy.  It  seems  that 
she  has  a  proud  spirit  and  would  rather  starve 
than  ask  any  one  for  assistance,  although  she 
could  have  gotten  that  quick  enough  from  Herman 
Ridden" 

Barcon  had  been  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
puffing  away,  his  mind  set  on  a  certain  purpose. 
When  the  detective  mentioned  that  name  he  fairly 
leaped  out  of  his  chair  and  anxiously  asked: 

"  Herman  Ridder  ?    What  Herman  Ridder  ?" 

Mr.  Marks  eyed  him  curiously,  smiled  com 
placently,  leisurely  raised  his  cigar  to  his  lips, 
removed  it,  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  in  the  air, 
as  if  he  would  keep  Mr.  Amos  Barcon  in  suspense 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  a  gleam  of 
satisfaction  at  the  interest  he  had  aroused: 

"Why,    Herman     Ridder,    Superintendent    of 

272 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  Cornelia  Mine — your  mine,  Mr.   Barcon." 

"And  what  in  the  name  of  heaven,"  heatedly 
asked  Amos,  as  he  dropped  back  into  his  chair, 
"has  he  to  do  with  Miss  Lash  ?" 

"Why,  your  superintendent  is  very  much  in 
love  with  Miss  Lash.  And  as  far  as  I  could  learn 
from  Bucher,  she  thinks  a  great  deal  of  him. 
I  found  out  that  he  is  in  town — " 

"I  know  he  is,"  interrupted  Barcon.  "He 
was  here  an  hour  ago." 

"And  in  order  to  prove  some  things  to  myself 
I  took  one  of  our  stenographers,  representing  that 
she  was  my  wife,  and  bought  her  a  hat  in  Miss 
Lash's  store.  Ridder  was  there,  and  it  didn't 
require  an  experienced  detective  to  see  that  those 
two  are  very  much  in  love." 

"And  why  doesn't  he  marry  her,  if  she  needs 
some  one  to  help  her,  if  she  is  in — want  ?" 

"  Because,  Mr.  Bucher  tells  me,  Herman  Ridder 
is  one  of  the  most  bashful  men  in  the  world  and 
would  rather  lose  his  life  in  a  powder  explosion 
than  propose  to  the  woman  he  wants  to  be  his 
wife." 

"So  that  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  it,  I  take 
it — Miss  Lash  is  in  love  with  Ridder,  who  hasn't 
the  courage  to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  while  she 
is  actually  in  financial  need  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that  is  the  truth  of  the  matter.     Do 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

you  wish  any  further  information,  Mr.  Barcon  ?" 
"  No,  that  will  be  all.     I  am  very  much  obliged 

to   you,   sir,   for  your  promptness.     If  you   will 

send  your  bill  to  me  I  will  see  that  it  is  paid  at 

once." 

He  shook  hands  with   Mr.   Marks,  and  when 

he  had  gone  he  sat  for  some  time  in  deep  thought. 

Suddenly  he   took  up  his  pen,  wrote  for  a  few 

minutes,  called  a  boy  and  told  him  to  take  the 

letter   he   handed   to   him   to   Miss   Mary   Lash, 

milliner,  on  Lawrence  Street. 

There  was  a  self-satisfied  smile  on  the  face  of 

Mr.  Amos  Barcon  as  the  boy  started  off  with  the 

note. 


274 


TICK  THE  THIRTT-FIRST 

MARY  LASH,  seated  in  her  little  "millinery 
parlor,"  was  anxiously  awaiting  customers.  The 
store  was  deserted.  There  was  a  look  of  anxiety 
upon  her  careworn  face,  for  her  rent  was  overdue 
and  business  was  anything  but  promising.  In 
the  rear  of  the  store  was  her  dining-room, 
bedroom,  and  kitchen,  all  in  one.  She  arose  at 
intervals  and  walked  back  and  forth  from  the 
store  to  the  back  room,  thinking  of  Herman 
Ridder,  who  had  gone  only  an  hour  before. 
She  was  wondering  why  he  did  not  make  her 
happy  by  asking  her  to  be  his  wife  and  relieving 
her  of  this  struggle  for  existence.  She  was  wonder 
ing  thus  when  the  store  door  opened  and  a  bright, 
neatly  clad  boy  entered  and  handed  her  an 
envelope. 

This  was  such  an  unusual  occurrence  that 
Mary  was  surprised.  She  hastily  tore  open  the 
envelope,  glanced  at  the  printed  letterhead,  and 
knowing  that  Herman  was  employed  by  the 
Cornelia  Mining  Company,  she  was  startled, 
for  the  thought  entered  her  mind  that  some 
accident  might  have  befallen  him.  She  exhibited 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

astonishment  when  she  read  the  letter,  which 
was  very  brief,  and  merely  asked  that  she  come  to 
the  office  of  the  company  the  following  morning 
at  eleven  o'clock  on  a  matter  that  concerned  her. 
It  was  signed  "Very  respectfully  yours,  Amos 
Barcon." 

"What  on  earth  can  they  want  of  me  ?"  she 
asked  herself.  What  "matter  that  concerned 
her"  could  have  to  do  with  the  Cornelia  Mining 
Company  ?  Surely  she  had  never  heard  of  Amos 
Barcon  before — what  could  he,  a  stranger,  want 
to  see  her  about  ?  Perhaps  the  building  in  which 
was  her  store  was  owned  by  the  company  and  they 
wished  to  know  why  the  rent  had  not  been  paid 
to  the  agent.  However,  there  was  the  request, 
and  she  would  satisfy  her  curiosity  and  close  the 
store  for  an  hour  to-morrow — it  would  not  matter 
much,  if  business  were  no  better  than  it  was  now. 

That  evening  Herman  called  again  to  see  her. 
She  did  not  mention  about  the  letter,  as  she  did 
not  wish  him  to  know  of  her  financial  embarrass 
ment — that  her  rent  was  unpaid.  They  had 
supper  together  and  when  they  parted  she  went 
to  her  little  room  and  there  spent  a  restless  night. 
Early  in  the  morning  she  arose  and  arranged  her 
toilet  with  extreme  care.  She  endeavored  to 
assume  a  bright  and  cheerful  air,  but  the  lines 
of  care  were  upon  her  brow.  She  locked  the  door 

276 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

of  the  store  at  half-past  ten  and  walked  rapidly 
down  Lawrence  Street  to  Forty-second  Street 
and  then  turned  into  Arapahoe  Street,  where  stood 
the  Cornelia  Building. 

Ascending  the  short  flight  of  steps,  she  walked 
up  to  a  door  bearing  the  legend,  "Amos  Barcon, 
President."  In  response  to  her  timid  knock 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  heavy-bearded  man, 
with  eyeglasses. 

"You  are  Miss  Lash,  I  believe  ?"  said  Barcon 
in  a  deep  bass  voice  as  he  extended  his  big,  brawny 
hand. 

"Yes,  sir,  that  is  my  name.  I  received  a  letter 
from  you  yesterday  asking  me  to  be  here  at  eleven 
o'clock  to-day." 

She  put  out  a  gloved  hand — Barcon  was  quick 
to  detect  how  worn  the  glove  was — and  smiled 
as- she  continued: 

"I  was  surprised  to  receive  a  letter  from  you. 
Is  it  in  regard  to  the  rent  for  my  store  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  answered  Barcon.  "It  is  a  matter 
of  entirely  different  import,  Miss  Lash.  I  asked 
you  to  come  here  for  a  purpose — what  that  purpose 
is  will  reveal  itself  later.  Would  you  mind  sitting 
behind  that  screen  there  ?  Here  is  a  magazine 
to  while  away  the  time  until  I  call  you." 

Mary  Lash  walked  over  behind  the  screen 
and  sat  down.  She  was  very  much  puzzled. 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

She  was  wondering  what  it  could  all  mean  when 
the  door  opened  and  in  walked  a  broad-shouldered 
man,  towering  over  six  feet. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Pell,"  said  Barcon, 
grasping  the  hand  of  his  friend,  "I  am  glad 
you  came,  and  I  think  when  you  are  through  you 
will  say  the  same.  All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  sit 
there  as  if  you  were  my  lawyer  and  say  nothing 
unless  I  should  ask  you  a  question.  That  is 
easy  enough,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Why,"  laughingly  said  Mr.  Pell,  "that's 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  me,  being  a 
man,  to  keep  my  mouth  shut — " 

Just  then  he  glanced  up  and  saw  Miss  Lash 
as  she  settled  gracefully  in  the  arm-chair  Barcon 
had  placed  behind  the  screen  for  her.  She  sat 
in  full  view  of  Mr.  Pell,  but  could  not  be  seen 
from  Barcon's  desk.  Mr.  Pell  was  on  the  verge 
of  breaking  his  promise  when  he  saw  Mary  there. 
He,  too,  was  beginning  to  wonder  what  it  was 
all  about.  Barcon  was  rubbing  his  hands  in 
apparent  glee  and  was  expectantly  watching  the 
door.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  which 
was  broken  by  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door.  Barcon 
arose,  opened  it,  and  exclaimed,  in  assumed 
surprise: 

"Oh,  that  you,  Herman?  Come  in.  I  see 
you  keep  your  appointments  promptly.  Mr. 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Pell,  my  superintendent — Mr.  Ridder,  Mr.  Pell. 
I  have  asked  him  to  meet  me  to-day  to  talk  over 
some  business  matters." 

"I  am  pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Pell,"  came 
from  a  set  of  lips  that  betokened  kindness  and 
firmness.  And  he  gave  Mr.  Pell  a  grip  that, 
though  he  had  done  some  mighty  hard  work  in 
his  time,  convinced  him  that  his  muscles  were 
becoming  soft.  George  Pell,  reseating  himself, 
looking  over  at  the  arm-chair,  saw  a  lady  half 
rise  at  the  mention  of  Ridder's  name,  while  he 
saw  also  the  cheeks  of  the  same  lady  change  from 
the  color  of  a  peach  to — well,  there  is  no  description 
save  that  of  the  plain  word — red. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Ridder,"  began  Barcon  in 
that  slow,  methodical  way  that  Herman  had 
become  accustomed  to  when  Barcon  and  Eilen 
were  weighing  some  heavy  problems,  "I  have 
sent  for  you  on  a  matter  that  concerns  us  both 
deeply.  To  make  the  matter  clear  to  you  I  must 
first  state  that  I  am  worn  out  by  business  cares 
and  have  been  notified  by  my  physician  that  I  must 
take  a  rest  or  break  down  completely.  As  you 
well  know,  my  business  interests  require  close 
attention,  particularly  as  Mr.  Eilen  is  not  likely 
to  devote  as  much  time  to  them  in  the  future  as 
he  has  in  the  past." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  evidently  to  map  out 

279 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

some  plan  he  had  in  mind.  Herman  remained 
silent,  waiting  for  him  to  resume. 

"Well,  the  upshot  of  the  matter  is,"  continued 
Barcon,  "that  I  am  going  to  appoint  a  manager 
to  look  after  my  interests  here  in  Denver  and  place 
a  new  superintendent  at  the  mine  in  Virginia 
City.  Now,  I  don't  want  you  to  think  for  a 
moment  that  I  have  not  appreciated  your  services 
in  the  past,  but  you  will  readily  understand  me 
when  I  say  that  I  cannot  trust  my  many  and 
complicated  interests  to  the  care  of  any  one  who 
is — er,  irresponsible,  in  a  way.  Mind,  I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  that  I  do  not  place  the  strictest 
confidence  in  you,  but  I  mean  in  the  sense  that  a 
young  man  without  family  ties  is  hardly  the  person 
to  whom  to  entrust  my  affairs.  So  I  tell  you 
candidly  that  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  to  put 
married  men  in  the  places  of  manager  and  superin 
tendent.  I  am  sorry,  Herman,  but  you  will  see 
for  yourself  that  it  is  for  the  best." 

Barcon  wheeled  around  in  his  chair  as  if  to 
look  in  his  desk,  but  to  Mr.  Pell  it  was  evident 
that  the  motive  of  the  move  was  to  give  Ridder 
time  to  grasp  Barcon's  meaning.  Mr.  Pell  glanced 
over  toward  the  figure  behind  the  screen,  from 
whom  there  came  a  muffled,  choking  sob.  He 
then  looked  at  Ridder,  whose  strong-featured 
face  was  white,  but  impassive.  Not  a  movement 

280 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

of  the  muscles  was  there  to  show  that  he  felt 
any  regret — not  a  sign  of  the  bitterness  that  was 
working  underneath  that  big  chest. 

Barcon  wheeled  around  again  and  faced  Her 
man.  He  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then 
said: 

"Well?" 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Barcon,"  came  from  Herman, 
in  a  calm,  measured  manner,  "you  are  the  judge 
of  what  is  best  for  your  business  interests.  I 
have  always  endeavored  to  serve  you  well — to 
safeguard  your  interests  as  if  they  were  my  own. 
I  have  had  dreams  that  some  day  I  might  be  more 
to  you  than  a  superintendent.  I  knew  that  you 
were  breaking  down  from  business  cares,  and  I 
have  tried  to  prepare  myself  for  the  duties  that 
I  thought  would  devolve  upon  me  should  you 
retire  for  a  time  from  the  active  management  of 
your  properties,  for  I  knew  that  Mr.  Eilen  would 
not  care  to  be  burdened  with  them.  But  probably 
you  are  right.  A  married  man  may  be  more 
reliable,  but  I  am  sure  not  more  faithful,  than  I 
have  been." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment — a  silence 
that  seemed  unbearable  to  Mr.  Pell.  He  glanced 
again  toward  the  figure  behind  the  screen.  Mary 
Lash  had  drawn  a  dainty  handkerchief  from  her 
handbag  and  was  suspiciously  wiping  her  eyes. 

281 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Why    she    should    feel    interested    in    the    matter 
was  beyond  him. 

"Mr.  Barcon,"  said  Ridder,  breaking  the  pall 
of  solemnity  that  seemed  to  pervade  the  room, 
"when  shall  I  retire  in  favor  of  my  successor?" 
He  said  this  quietly  and  resignedly. 

"At  once.  But,  of  course,  you  will  remain 
in  my  employ/* 

"Not  at  all,  sir,"  said  Herman.  "I  have  no 
ties  to  bind  me  here.  I  shall  go  away  at  once — 
for  good  and  for  all." 

Here  there  was  an  audible  sob  from  behind 
the  screen.  Mr.  Pell,  looking  up,  saw  the  hand 
kerchief  doing  double  duty.  He  glanced  over  at 
Barcon,  who  he  knew  was  possessed  of  an  iron 
will,  when  need  be.  He  knew,  also,  that  if  he 
had  resolved  upon  the  course  he  was  pursuing 
it  would  be  futile  for  him  to  appeal  on  Ridder's 
behalf.  But  he  did  not  know  why  that  visible 
smile  was  playing  about  those  lips  of  Barcon, 
which  opened  to  deliver  this: 

"Herman  Ridder,"  said  Barcon,  as  he  arose 
from  his  chair  and  stood  in  front  of  that  person, 
his  voice  rising  as  he  became  enthusiastic — nay, 
almost  dramatic — "Herman  Ridder,  are  you  a 
fool  ?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  going 
to  let  the  opportunity  of  your  life  slip  by  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  there  isn't  a  lady  in  this 

282 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

town  who  loves  you  enough  to  marry  you  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  aren't  in  love  with 
one  of  the  sweetest  and  best  girls  that  you  ever 
set  your  eyes  on  ?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  haven't  got  courage  enough  to  ask  that  lady 
to  marry  you  in  order  that  you  may  hold  your 
position  with  me  ?" 

Barcon  paused  for  breath.  It  was  a  study 
to  watch  Ridder's  face.  It  turned  all  the  various 
gradations  from  white  to  purple.  He  was  dumb 
founded.  A  light  seemed  to  dawn  upon  Mr. 
Pell,  who  saw  the  figure  by  the  screen  rise  up 
suddenly,  her  face  scarlet,  and  leaning  forward 
as  if  in  doubt  whether  to  emerge  from  her  seclusion 
and  reveal  herself. 

Barcon  had  regained  his  breath.     He  resumed: 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Herman  Ridder, 
that  because  you  are  too  bashful  to  ask  that  lady 
to  become  your  wife  I  am  going  to  let  you  go  ? 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  not  going 
to  get  married  and  take  that  cottage  I  own  on 
Larimer  Street  and  which  I  will  give  you  as  a 
wedding  present  ?  No,  sir,  Mr.  Herman  Ridder, 
you  are  not  going  to  play  me  that  way,  and  I 
know  the  lady  is  not  going  to  allow  you  to  lose 
your  opportunity  simply  because  you  are  a  single 
man.  Miss  Lash,  will  you  kindly  step  this  way  ?" 

To  describe  the  look  of  surprise  that  came  over 

283 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Ridder's  face  as  the  trim  little  figure  emerged 
from  behind  the  screen  is  beyond  words;  much 
more  difficult  would  it  be  to  picture  Herman's 
absolute  astonishment  and  crestfallen  manner 
as  Miss  Lash  stepped  over  to  Mr.  Amos  Barcon, 
President  of  the  Cornelia  Mining  Company. 

"Now,  look  here,"  continued  Barcon,  a  broad 
smile  overspreading  his  countenance,  "this  little 
lady  needs  the  protection  and  love  of  a  great  big 
fellow  like  you.  Do  you  think  it  is  right  to  let 
her  battle  against  a  cold,  heartless  world  alone, 
while  you — big,  strong,  healthy  man  that  you  are- 
go  about  caring  only  for  yourself?" 

It  seemed  as  if  Barcon  had  reached  the  extent 
of  his  vocabulary.  Miss  Lash,  blushing,  looked 
appealingly  first  at  him  and  then  at  Mr.  Pell. 
Herman  Ridder  was  entirely  at  a  loss  how  to  act. 
Mr.  Pell,  unable  to  contain  himself  any  longer, 
sprang  up  from  his  seat,  went  over  to  Mary  Lash, 
kissed  her  as  fair  as  ever  fond  father  kissed  daugh 
ter,  and  yelled  out,  in  almost  childish  glee: 

"Bully  for  you,  Amos  Barcon!  If  he  doesn't 
marry  this  dear  little  lady,  let  him  go.  And 
if  he  does,  why,  I  will  furnish  the  house  for  them. 
What  more  do  you  want,  eh,  Mr.  Ridder — Miss 
Lash  ?" 

This  outburst  seemed  to  delight  him  so  that 
he  fairly  danced  with  joy.  Barcon,  becoming 

284 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

inoculated  with  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm  took 
Mary  by  the  hand  and  led  her  over  to  Herman, 
and  made  them  join  hands. 

"What  do  you  say,"  said  Barcon,  turning  to 
Herman,  "are  you  going  to  be  Miss  Lash's 
protector  for  life  ?" 

"I  certainly  will  be,  if  Miss  Lash  consents," 
emphatically  declared  Herman. 

"I    consent,"    she    said,    blushing. 

"Now,  then,  you  two — listen.  To-morrow 
morning  you  are  to  be  wed.  Miss  Lash  is  to 
close  up  her  store,  Herman — Mr.  Herman  Ridder, 
Manager  of  the  Cornelia  Mining  Company, 
if  you  please.  We  will  meet  here  to-morrow 
morning  at  eleven  o'clock — you,  Miss  Lash;  you, 
Mr.  Ridder,  and,  of  course,  a  minister.  And 
you  will  be  here,  too,  won't  you,  Mr.  Pell  ?" 

At  which  George  Pell  performed  a  terpsichorean 
feat  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  premiere 
danseuse  and  cried  out: 

"  I  will  be  the  first  one  here." 

What  handshaking  there  was!  How  Ridder 
hung  back  in  order  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings, 
his  gratitude  to  Amos  Barcon! 

And  Mary  Lash!  Didn't  she  go  up  to  the 
bronzed,  bearded  man  and  smack  him  squarely 
on  the  lips  and  declare  him  to  be  the  "best, 
dearest,  loveliest  man  that  ever  lived  ?" 

285 


TICK  THE  THIRTT-SECOND 

THE  following  morning,  Herman  Ridder  and 
Mary  Lash,  all  smiles,  appeared  at  Mr.  Barcon's 
office.  Barcon  and  Pell  were  there — George 
Pell  had  arrived  at  half-past  nine,  the  office  boy 
informed  his  employer.  But  wasn't  he  dressed 
up  to  kill  ?  Underneath  his  iron-gray  chin 
whisker  was  a  flaming  red  tie  that  would  have 
flagged  an  express  train.  In  the  aforesaid  tie 
there  was  a  diamond  that  would  have  answered 
for  the  headlight  of  the  said  express  train.  His 
mustache  had  been  carefully  curled  and  his  hair 
was  pomaded  until  it  glistened  like  a  looking- 
glass.  What  a  hearty  handshake  he  gave  Herman ! 
And  didn't  he  kiss  Mary  three  times  and  tell 
her  that  she  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture  and  looked 
too  sweet  for  anything  ?  One  would  have  thought 
that  he  had  known  Mary  for  years. 

Promptly  at  eleven  o'clock  the  Reverend  Joseph 
Morris  and  his  wife  arrived  in  a  carriage.  There 
were  introductions  all  around,  and  the  minister 
then  performed  the  ceremony,  Mr.  Pell  acting  as 
best  man  and  Mrs.  Morris  doing  duty  in  place  of 
a  bridesmaid.  Mr.  Barcon  gave  the  bride  away. 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

When  the  minister  ended  with  those  words  that 
Barcon  had  heard  five  years  ago,  "That  which 
God  hath  joined  together,  let  not  man  put 
asunder,"  what  kissing  there  was,  and  hand 
shaking,  and  congratulations.  How  happy  those 
two  were.  And  George  Pell!  Why,  one  would 
have  thought  that  he  was  the  bridegroom.  He 
laughed  and  sang,  slapped  Herman  on  the  back, 
and  congratulated  the  couple  over  and  over  again. 

After  the  ceremony  they  all  went  to  Mr.  Pell's 
hotel  for  dinner.  Mr.  Barcon  had  informed  Her 
man  that  he  would  give  him  two  weeks'  vacation 
and  the  happy  couple  had  decided  to  spend  their 
honeymoon  at  Colorado  Springs.  Mr.  Pell  said 
that  he  would  keep  his  word  and  have  the  cottage 
that  Barcon  had  given  them  for  their  wedding 
present  furnished  for  them  when  they  returned. 
No  wonder  they  were  so  happy  when  they  said 
good-bye  to  their  benefactors.  No  wonder  that 
the  lines  of  care  that  had  been  on  Mary's  brow 
had  suddenly  been  dispelled. 

As  Mary — Mrs.  Herman  Ridder — said  good 
bye  to  Mr.  Amos  Barcon  she  slipped  a  dainty 
little  envelope  into  his  hand.  Of  course  Barcon 
knew  what  it  contained — it  would  be  full  of  words 
of  gratitude  to  him.  He  put  it  in  his  coat  pocket 
and  walked  slowly  back  to  his  office.  What  a 
flood  of  memories  rushed  through  his  mind 

287 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

during  that  walk.  Being  in  the  company  of  Mary 
for  a  few  hours  had  removed  the  gap  of  years  since 
he  had  taken  the  train  at  East  Stroudsburg. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  office  he  found  a  stack  of 
letters  and  bills  and  other  business  to  be  attended 
to.  For  three  hours  he  worked  assiduously 
and  then  closed  his  desk.  It  occurred  to  him 
now  that  he  had  not  read  Mary's  letter.  He  took 
it  from  his  pocket,  opened  it,  and  read: 
"Mr.  Amos  Barcon — 

Dear  Sir:  I  do  not  know  how  to  express  my 
gratitude  to  you  for  your  kindness  to  Mr.  Ridder 
and  myself.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  do  so.  But 
I  want  to  say  that  you  are  the  noblest,  kindest, 
best  man  that  ever  lived.  And,  furthermore,  let 
me  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr.  Barcon — and  that  is, 
that  if  you  only  knew  it,  you  could  win  the  love 
of  one  of  the  best  and  truest  hearts  that  ever  beat 
—the  love  of  one  of  the  sweetest  and  prettiest 
women  in  the  country.  And  some  day  you  will 
find  that  out,  too,  you  dear,  kind,  good — Jim 
Carbon! 

Mrs.  Herman  Ridder  I  will  be  when  you  read 
this,  but  I  still  sign  myself 

MARY  LASH." 

Amos  Barcon  uttered  an  exclamation  when 
he  read  his  real  name — the  name  which  he  had 
not  seen  since  that  memorable  day  when  he  had 

288 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

taken  the  one  he  now  bore.  Mary,  then,  had 
discovered  his  identity,  notwithstanding  his  self- 
assurance  that  his  disguise  had  not  been  pene 
trated.  He  felt,  however,  that  she  would  not 
betray  him — of  that  he  was  sure.  But  what  did 
she  mean  when  she  wrote  that  he  could  "win 
the  love  of  one  of  the  prettiest  and  sweetest 
women  in  the  country"  ?  He  tried  to  conjure  up 
all  the  pretty  women  he  had  met  since  he  had 
become  a  man  of  some  standing  in  the  community 
— for  the  president  of  the  Cornelia  Mining  Com 
pany  would  have  been  considered  a  very  desirable 
"catch"  by  many  a  fond  mamma.  But  he  was 
not  vain  enough  to  believe  that  any  woman  would 
fall  in  love  with  him,  for  he  was  anything  but  a 
handsome  man — he  knew  that. 

She  evidently  meant  no  woman  in  particular; 
she  meant  in  a  general  sense  that  he  could  win 
the  love  of  "one  of  the  best  and  truest  hearts  that 
ever  beat."  However,  when  she  returned  from 
her  honeymoon  he  would  have  a  heart-to-heart 
talk  with  her  and  beg  her  not  to  reveal  that  he 
was  Jim  Carbon,  who  had  so  suddenly  disappeared 
from  Monroe  County — not  even  to  her  husband. 
He  wondered  if  she  received  letters  from  Myra; 
he  wondered  if  he  would  dare  ask  her  if  she  had 
heard  when  Myra  had  been  divorced  from  him; 
he  wondered  if  she  would  tell  him  all  the  news 

289 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

about  the  dear  old  place,  if  she  had  been  in  com 
munication  with  Myra;  or  would  she,  not  knowing 
why  he  had  gone  away  so  suddenly  and  believing 
him  to  have  forsaken  Myra,  avoid  his  questions 
and  declare  that  she  knew  nothing  whatever  ?  Mr. 
Marks,  the  detective,  had  told  him  that  she  received 
letters  postmarked  East  Stroudsburg,  and  he  felt 
sure  that  she  was  fully  informed  of  the  doings 
of  those  he  had  left  behind. 

Amos  Barcon  was  a  busy  man  the  ten  days 
following  Eilen's  departure  for  the  East,  for  upon 
him  devolved  double  duty — that  of  his  own  office 
and  that  of  vice-president.  He  was  thoroughly 
worn  out  and  looked  forward  to  the  return  of  his 
partner  and  Ridder  in  order  that  he  might  lay 
aside  business  cares  and  take  a  much-needed 
and  well-earned  rest.  He  had  worked  inde- 
fatigably  these  five  years,  and  the  strain  was  begin 
ning  to  tell  upon  him.  He  had  received  a  letter 
from  Clinton,  and  with  that  letter  was  one  from 
Mrs.  Florence  Eilen,  in  which  she  expressed  her 
thanks  for  the  beautiful  present  and  said  that 
she  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  she  would 
meet  Mr.  Barcon  in  person.  Clinton,  her  dear 
husband,  she  said,  had  made  her  promise  that 
she  would  give  him  a  sisterly  kiss,  for  she  would 
be  as  a  sister  to  him,  for  had  he  not  been  a  brother 
to  her  Clinton  ? 

290 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Clinton's  letter  was  full  of  happiness  and 
worship  for  his  "Flo."  He  told  when  and  where 
they  had  been  married  and  said  they  were  stopping 
with  his  uncle,  Judge  Eilen,  who  could  not  do 
too  much  to  make  their  honeymoon  trip  one 
ever  to  be  remembered.  He  wrote  of  the  long 
drives  they  took  and  described  the  beauties  of  the 
Delaware  Water  Gap  and  the  surrounding  country. 
Reading  further  down  the  page,  Barcon  read  that 
the  minister  who  had  married  them  had  called 
often  to  visit  them,  for  he  was  a  friend  of  Uncle 
Eilen,  and  spoke  of  the  oddity  of  his  name — one 
like  which  he  had  never  heard  before.  Turning 
over  the  page  to  read  on,  he  uttered  an  exclama 
tion  of  surprise,  for  the  minister  who  had  joined 
Clinton  Eilen  and  Florence  Vercool  in  the  bonds 
of  matrimony  was  none  other  than  David  Maujer. 

Barcon  gave  himself  up  to  meditation  when  he 
had  finished  reading  the  letters.  What  a  com 
bination  of  circumstances  had  happened  lately 
to  kindle  anew  the  feelings  that  he  had  for  those 
dear  folk  he  had  left  behind  these  five  years  agone 
—feelings  that  he  had  studiously  quelled  until 
they  had  become  as  dead  ashes  upon  the  smolder 
ing  fire.  First,  his  discovery  that  Clinton  Eilen 
was  going  to  the  place  where  he  had  passed  so 
many  happy  days;  then  the  sudden  awakening 
to  the  realization  that  Mary  Lash,  whom  he  had 

291 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

thought  thousands  of  miles  away  from  Denver, 
was  actually  here;  then  to  see  his  own  name 
again — Jim  Carbon,  how  sweet  that  sounded 
to  his  ears — how  much  more  euphony  there  was 
in  it  compared  with  Amos  Barcon;  then  to  hear 
again  of  that  dear  friend,  that  good  man  of  God — 
David  Maujer,  who  had  made  Myra  Boosch  Mrs. 
James  Carbon,  only  to  "let  man  put  asunder." 

Herman  Ridder  had  written  often  to  him 
and  to  Mr.  Pell,  and  each  letter  was  full  of  grati 
tude  and  prayers  for  the  welfare  of  both  of  his 
benefactors.  He  looked  forward  anxiously  to  the 
time  when  he  would  take  up  his  new  duties,  for 
it  had  been  the  dream  and  ambition  of  his  life, 
and  it  would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  him  to  relieve 
Mr.  Barcon  and  have  him  go  away  and  recuperate 
without  any  concern  as  to  his  properties.  Mary 
had  written  frequently  to  Mr.  Pell  and  each  time 
that  he  received  a  letter  he  would  rush  over  to 
Barcon's  office  and  chide  him  for  not  being  able 
to  "capture  the  ladies  and  have  them  write  to 
you  like  they  do  to  me,"  for  Mary  had  not  written 
a  line  to  Amos  since  she  had  handed  him  the 
letter  on  the  eve  of  their  departure. 

Four  days  later  Herman  Ridder  and  his  wife 
returned  from  their  honeymoon.  They  bustled 
into  Barcon's  office,  full  of  happiness  and  en 
thusiasm.  Mary  went  directly  up  to  him  and 

292 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

kissed  him  as  if  he  were  her  father,  while  Herman 
looked  on  with  evident  delight  at  the  exhibition 
of  gratefulness  his  wife  had  shown  to  the  man 
who  had  made  their  lives  so  full  of  joy.  As 
soon  as  they  entered  Barcon  summoned  his  office 
boy  and  told  him  to  go  to  Mr.  Pell's  hotel  and 
inform  him  that  he  wanted  to  see  him  at  once, 
for  Ridder  had  returned. 

In  a  very  short  while  Mr.  Pell,  bearing  a  large 
picture  of  himself,  arrived.  What  a  fuss  he  made 
over  the  couple.  Sit  down  for  a  while  ?  Well, 
I  guess  not.  Go  they  must,  at  once,  and  see  how 
prettily  their  cottage  had  been  furnished.  And 
so  they  did.  Mary's  eyes  fairly  danced  as  they 
went  from  room  to  room  and  admired  the  tasty 
manner  in  which  everything  had  been  furnished. 
How  in  the  world  could  Mr.  Pell  ever  have  man 
aged  and  planned  every  room  just  as  she  had 
pictured  in  her  mind  she  would  have  it  ?  And 
Mary  herself,  standing  on  a  chair,  with  Herman 
holding  her  up  in  great  trepidation  and  fear, 
personally  hung  the  picture  of  George  Pell,  which 
in  later  years  gazed  down  upon  the  little  Ridders 
as  they  arrived  and  grew  to  maturity.  Often 
did  they  beg  Mr.  Barcon  to  have  his  picture 
taken,  so  that  he,  too,  might  adorn  the  wall  and 
occupy  the  place  of  honor  alongside  of  that  of 
his  esteemed  friend — but  no,  he  never  would  do 

293 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

so,    no    matter    how    strongly    they    urged    him. 

Time  and  time  again  Barcon  tried  to  have  a 
moment's  private  conversation  with  Mary,  but 
she  had  diplomatically  managed  it  so  that,  when 
ever  he  called,  her  husband  or  some  one  else  was 
present.  She  was  aware  that  he  would  ask  her 
some  questions  that  she,  for  obvious  reasons, 
just  at  present  did  not  care  to  answer.  She  was 
anxiously,  expectantly,  feverishly  awaiting  some 
development  of  a  little  scheme  of  hers  which  she 
hoped  each  day  would  blossom  and  bear  fruit. 
She  had  something  on  her  mind,  that  was  certain, 
for  had  not  Herman  noticed  lately  that  she  had 
betrayed  some  agitation  whenever  they  spoke  of 
Amos  Barcon  ? 

Clinton  had  written  that  he  would  return  on 
the  coming  Saturday,  and  Barcon  was  looking 
forward  to  that  day.  He  had  so  arranged  his 
affairs  that  he  could  go  away  the  following  Mon 
day.  It  was  on  Friday  afternoon  that  Mr.  Amos 
Barcon,  seated  in  his  office,  with  a  stack  of  mail 
in  front  of  him,  was  dreaming,  as  he  had  often 
done,  of  late,  of  the  past,  and  was  nonchalantly 
running  his  eye  over  the  envelopes  in  front  of 
him,  when  his  eyes  fairly  bulged  in  astonishment 
at  a  letter,  addressed  in  a  feminine  hand  that 
seemed  to  him  familiar  and  that  bore  the  post 
mark  of  East  Stroudsburg.  His  hands  fairly 

294 


'Merciful  God!      Can  this  be  true,  or  am   I  dreaming?" 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

trembled  as  he  broke  open  the  seal;  and  for  a 
moment  he  appeared  as  one  stunned  as  he  drew 
his  hand  across  his  forehead,  while  the  letter 
fluttered  to  the  floor. 

It  was  some  time  before  Amos  Barcon  recovered 
himself.  When  he  did,  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven  and  exclaimed: 

"Merciful  God!  Can  this  be  true  or  am  I 
dreaming  ?" 


295 


TICK  THE  THIRTT-THIRD 

AMOS  BARCON  picked  up  the  letter  from  the 
floor  and  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  signature.  True 
enough,  he  was  not  deceived.  There  it  was,  as 
plain  as  he  had  ever  seen  anything  in  his  life. 
He  walked  over  to  the  door,  locked  it,  and  then 
reseated  himself,  laying  the  letter  on  the  table 
as  if  in  fear  that  his  trembling  hands  might  tear 
the  precious  missive  apart.  He  read  slowly, 
as  if  in  dread  that  he  might  miss  one  word,  almost 
spelling  each  one  out  to  himself.  And  this  is 
what  Mr.  Amos  Barcon,  President  of  the  Cornelia 
Mining  Company,  read: 
"My  dear  Husband: 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Mary  Lash, 
who  tells  me  that  she  is  about  to  change  her  name 
to  Ridder,  and  in  which  she  tells  me  of  the  kind 
and  generous  act  on  your  part  toward  her  husband 
and  herself — only  one  more  added  to  the  many 
noble  and  self-sacrificing  deeds  that  will  ever  be 
cherished  by  so  many  who  have  cause  to  bless  you. 
My  father  long  ago  told  me  of  the  sacrifices 
you  have  made,  my  dear  husband,  and  I  am 
proud  to  tell  you  that  I  have  long  ago  learned 

296 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to  love  one  who  could  be  so  good,  so  noble,  so 
generous,  so  self-sacrificing — what  woman  would 
not  learn  to  love  so  good  a  man  ? 

My  dear  husband,  do  you  think  you  could 
learn  to  love  me  a  little  ?  Do  you  think  that  I 
could  win  just  a  little  bit  of  your  love  ?  I  will 
be  a  good  wife  to  you,  true  as  I  have  been  to  your 
name,  which  I  still  bear  and  always  will  until 
death  separates  us.  Were  it  not  that  father  is 
getting  old  I  would  come  to  you  and  plead  in 
person,  but  I  cannot  leave  him  now,  and  mother, 
too,  needs  my  care.  Will  you  come  to  me  and  let 
me  try  to  win  your  love  ?  Remember,  my  dear 
husband,  as  your  mother's  Bible,  which  you  left 
behind  and  which  you  quoted,  says:  *  There  is 
laid  up  for  you  a  crown  of  righteousness,  which 
the  Lord,  the  righteous  Judge,  shall  give  you  on 
that  day.' 

I  shall  anxiously  await  a  word  from  you, 
giving  me  some  hope  that  you  will  come  to  me 
and  that  we  may  end  our  days  in  happiness  and 
in  the  warmth  of  a  true  love  that  should  belong 
to  so  good  a  man  as  you.  Give  my  love  to  Mary, 
and  tell  her  that  I  thank  her  for  her  letter,  else 
I  should  probably  never  have  heard  of  you  again. 
She  has  done  a  Christian  act  in  notifying  me  at 
once  of  your  whereabouts,  for  I  have  prayed  to 
God  day  and  night  that  He  would  lead  me  to  you, 

297 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and    at    last    my    prayer    has    been    answered. 

May  the  Almighty  watch  over  you  and  guard 
you  day  and  night  is  the  prayerful  wish  of  your 
loving  wife, 

MYRA." 

When  Amos  Barcon  had  finished  reading 
the  letter  he  dropped  upon  his  knees  and  for  fully 
five  minutes  he  prayed  silently  and  earnestly. 
He  thanked  the  Master  for  His  goodness  to  him, 
for  His  watchfulness  over  him,  for  His  leading 
him  into  the  paths  of  righteousness,  for  His 
blessing  him  with  prosperity,  and  for  His  offering 
opportunity  to  right  his  respected  name  in  the 
little  community  he  had  left  five  years  ago. 

When  he  arose  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the 
big,  scrawny  man — tears  that  were  honest  and 
came  from  the  very  depths  of  the  soul  of  that  good 
man.  Aye,  tears  that  no  man  would  be  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  had  been  shed. 

He  paced  up  and  down  his  office  with  the 
letter  in  his  trembling  hands,  as  if  he  were  afraid 
lest  he  might  awaken  only  to  find  it  had  all  been  a 
dream.  Over  and  over  again  he  read:  "My 
dear  husband,  do  you  think  you  could  learn  to 
love  me  a  little?"  Learn  to  love  her  a  little? 
Learn  to  love  her  a  little,  the  woman  whose  picture 
was  ever  before  him,  try  as  he  would  to  forget  it, 
for  her  sake  ?  Learn  to  love  her  a  little,  the 

298 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

woman  who  had  won  his  love  so  many  years  ago 
and  which  love  the  years  had  not  dimmed,  even 
though  he  had  known  it  to  be  a  hopeless  one  ? 
Learn  to  love  her  a  little,  she  who  had  owned  the 
only  love  he  had  ever  known  for  living  woman  ? 
Learn  to  love  her  a  little — his  love,  which  had  been 
hers  so  wholly  and  fully  at  the  time  when  she 
dreamed  that  there  could  be  no  other  love  than 
that  of  Richard  Broakley's  ? 

He  read  the  letter  over  again,  raised  it  fervently 
to  his  lips,  replaced  it  in  the  envelope,  carefully 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  sat  down  to  dream  and 
think,  and  think  and  dream.  He  sat  there  for 
an  hour,  heedless  of  the  mass  of  work  in  front  of 
him,  oblivious  of  the  existence  of  the  Cornelia 
Mining  Company.  Then  there  came  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  brushing  his  hand  across  his 
brow,  and  making  sure  that  the  letter  was  safe 
in  his  pocket,  he  opened  the  door.  The  office 
boy  stood  there,  and  behind  him  was  Mary  Ridder. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Ridder,"  said  Barcon,  in  a  voice 
that  was  now  unassumed  and  that  was  clearly 
Jim  Carbon's,  "how  do  you  do?  Step  into  the 
office.  Where  is  Herman  ?" 

"He  is  in  Mr.  Eilen's  room.  I  told  him  I 
wanted  a  few  minutes'  private  conversation  with 
you  and  that  he  needn't  be  jealous,  for  he  would 
dance  with  joy  when  he  found  out  what  it  was  all 

299 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

about.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Barcon" — she  laid 
great  emphasis  on  that  name  each  time  she  gave 
utterance  to  it — "that  I  have  had  dear  Herman 
worried  because  every  time  he  started  to  talk 
about  you  I  would  change  the  subject  ?  Why, 
he  thought  I  had  taken  a  great  dislike  to  you. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

Barcon  laughed.  "Why,  I  certainly  would  not 
have  you  dislike  me,  Mrs.  Ridder." 

"Oh,  please  don't  call  me  Mrs.  Ridder.  I 
am  married  now,  and  you  are  married,  too,  and 
we  are  old  friends  and  can  call  each  other  by 
something  less  formal  than  Mrs.  Ridder  and 
Mr.  Barcon.  I  have  always  called  you  Jim 
Carbon  before  and  it  sounds  so  good  and  so  like 
the  old  times  at  the  Boosches  when  everybody 
knew  you  as  Jim  Carbon  that  I  just  can't  help  it." 

"Well,  then,  so  be  it,  Mary,"  replied  Amos,  as 
he  extended  his  hand,  "for  the  little  time  we  will 
see  each  other  we  will  dispense  with  formality 
and  be  old  friends  again — only  no  more  drying 
dishes  for  you  and  escorting  you  home  from 
festivals,  eh  ?" 

"  Little  time  we  will  see  each  other  ?  What 
do  you  mean,  Jim  Carbon  ?  You  certainly  are 
a  man  of  mystery." 

"I  mean  that  I  am  going  away  from  here  and— 

"Going   away   from   here!"   Mary   gasped,    as 

300 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

she  had  five  years  ago  when  he  had  made  the 
same  announcement. 

"Yes,  Mary,"  said  Barcon,  with  a  slight 
twinkle  in  his  eyes;  "yes,  I  am  going  back  to  my 
wife  to  prove  to  her  that  I  am  not  so  good  a  man 
as  you  have  tried  to  convince  her  that  I  was." 

Mary  dropped  into  a  chair  in  open-mouthed 
wonderment.  But  only  for  a  moment,  for  pres 
ently  she  bounded  out  of  it  and  cried  out: 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!  Didn't  I  tell  you  that 
you  could  win  the  love  of  one  of  the  best  and 
prettiest  women  in  this  country — and  that  woman 
your  wife — although  I  didn't  tell  you  that  at  the 
time  ?  Don't  I  know  that  she  has  been  pining 
for  you,  and  that  if  you  will  only  go  back  and  be 
a  good  boy  you  can  win  back  her  love  ?  Didn't 
I  write  to  her  and  tell  her  how  good  you  are — " 

"Yes,  Mary,  I  know  that.  I  have  a  letter 
from  Myra." 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you?  And  you  won't 
let  me  see  it,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  Mary.  It  was  intended  for  no  eyes 
other  than  mine.  Myra  wanted  to  be  remem 
bered  to  you — and  I  have  you  to  thank  and  bless 
for  that  letter,  haven't  I  ? " 

"Well,  yes,  in  a  way,  I  suppose — but,  then, 
you  know,  one  good  turn  deserves  another." 

Mary  stood  in  front  of  him,  put  out  her  hands, 

301 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

and  looked  up  into  those  eyes  that  she  had  so 
loved  in  years  gone  by,  and  with  a  simple,  straight 
forward  frankness  said  to  him: 

"  Jim  Carbon,  you  are  going  back  to  your  wife 
and  daughter  to  take  care  of  them,  aren't  you, 
you  dear,  good,  kind,  old  Jim  Carbon,  you." 

Barcon  gave  a  start.  Daughter!  Myra,  then, 
had  been  blessed  with  a  daughter.  He  looked 
as  frankly  into  those  eyes  looking  so  appealingly  at 
him  and  said  softly,  pressing  the  hands  he  held: 

"Yes,  Mary,  I  am." 

"God  be  praised!"  said  Mary.  "I  knew  you 
were  not  the  bad  man  some  people  thought  you 
were,  and  I  don't  believe  Myra  thought  so,  either. 
I  am  sure  she  never  spoke  ill  of  you  for  deserting 
her — she  always  told  me  that  perhaps  some  day 
you  would  return  to  her  a  better  man  and  make 
amends  for  the  past." 

Amos  Barcon  thought  it  well  to  change  the 
course  the  conversation  was  taking. 

"On  Monday,  Mary,"  he  said,  "Amos  Barcon 
will  pass  out  of  existence,  for  I  leave  then  for 
East  Stroudsburg.  Amos  Barcon  will  never  return 
to  Denver,  but  perhaps  Jim  Carbon  may  some 
day,  for  a  visit.  But  I  will  insist  that  you  and 
Herman  shall  come  and  see  us  every  summer, 
for  I  shall  never  forget  how  much  I  owe  to  you, 
Mary.  You  are  at  liberty  to  tell  Herman  all,  and 

302 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

to-morrow  night  I  shall  call  at  your  house  and 
you  can  then  tell  me  everything  that  has  happened 
since  I  left  the  dear  old  place." 

"Oh,  what  a  delightful  time  we  shall  have," 
said  Mary,  gleefully.  "Just  think,  telling  Jim 
Carbon  all  that  happened  while  I  was  there  after 
he  had  gone  and  all  that  I  heard  from  letters  I 
received  from  Myra.  It  seems  like  a  dream. 
Why,  it  will  take  me  all  night,  almost." 

"So  much  the  better,"  answered  Amos,  "for 
that  will  help  pass  the  time." 

"Good-bye  until  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Mary 
as  she  bounded  out  of  the  loom  and  joined  her 
husband. 

Amos  hurriedly  went  through  the  mass  of  work 
in  front  of  him  and  put  his  affairs  into  such  shape 
that  he  could  give  Clinton  power  of  attorney  to 
act  for  him  in  his  absence. 

The  following  day  was  a  busy  one  for  him. 
First  he  went  to  see  Mr.  Pell  and  told  him  that 
he  was  going  East.  That  dear  old  soul  fairly 
wept  at  the  thought  of  parting.  He  had  been  as 
a  father  to  Amos  and  loved  him  as  a  son.  He  was 
no  longer  a  young  man,  was  Mr.  Pell,  and  could 
not  bear  parting  with  one  so  dear  to  him  without 
a  pang,  for  with  the  advancement  of  years  one 
does  not  look  forward  to  meeting  again  in  this 
world  with  the  same  hopefulness  that  is  inspired 

303 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

by  youth.  But  he  promised  that  he  would  take 
"a  run  East"  and  see  Barcon  soon,  for  he  was 
going  to  give  up  his  various  business  affairs  and 
retire. 

In  the  afternoon  Clinton  Eilen  and  his  "Flo" 
arrived.  My!  what  a  happy  couple  they  were. 
And  what  a  time  "Flo"  made  over  her  new 
"brother."  Amos  did  not  wonder,  now,  why 
Clinton  should  have  been  so  anxious  to  win  such 
a  prize.  While  she  was  not  a  remarkably  pretty 
woman,  she  certainly  had  a  disposition  that  would 
have  captivated  any  man's  heart.  They  had  a 
late  dinner  together,  and  after  that  Amos  asked 
"Flo"  if  she  could  spare  her  husband  for  a  while, 
as  he  had  many  things  to  tell  him.  He  took  them 
over  to  Ridder's  cottage  and  "Flo"  and  Mary 
immediately  formed  a  friendship  that  lasted  for 
a  lifetime. 

Barcon  and  Eilen  went  to  the  office  of  the 
Cornelia  Mining  Company  together,  and  there 
Amos  told  his  friend  all — how  he  had  married 
Myra  Boosch  and  deserted  her;  how  he  had  gone 
away  suddenly  and  had  never  heard  from  her 
until  the  day  he  had  seen  Mary  Lash;  he  told 
of  having  advanced  Herman  to  the  position  of 
manager  and  of  his  marriage  to  Mary  Lash. 
Then  he  confessed  that  his  real  name  was  James 
Carbon  and  that  he  was  going  back  to  make 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

reparation  to  his  wife,  who  had  remained  true  to 
him,  scoundrel  though  he  had  been.  He  did 
not  spare  himself.  When  he  had  completed  his 
story  and  had  informed  Eilen  that  he  would  sell 
out  his  interest  to  him  and  would  go  back  to 
East  Stroudsburg,  Clinton's  heart  fairly  broke  at 
the  thought  that  they  should  have  to  part  com 
pany  after  these  years  of  brotherly  companionship. 

Long  and  earnestly  those  two  men  conferred, 
and  when  they  arose — as  it  was  time  to  go  back  to 
Ridder's,  for  Clinton  had  promised  his  "Flo" 
that  he  would  take  her  to  some  friends,  and  Amos 
remembered  Mary's  promise  to  tell  him  what 
had  transpired  at  the  Boosch  homestead  and 
thereabout — they  had  formed  a  compact  that 
meant  the  passing  out  of  the  firm  of  Barcon  & 
Eilen,  for  Clinton  had  resolved  that  he,  too,  would 
sell  out  his  interest,  but  would  remain  long  enough 
to  settle  up  everything  and  make  provision  with 
the  new  owners  of  the  mine  that  Ridder  was  to 
be  retained  for  life.  They  were  fairly  well-to-do, 
those  two — free  from  all  danger  of  ever  knowing 
want  again,  and  Clinton  had  resolved  to  return 
East  and  live  somewhere  near  his  dear  friend., 
so  that  all  could  be  happy  together. 

When  they  arrived  at  Herman's  house  Amos 
put  his  hand  in  his  vest  pocket  and  took  therefrom 
a  diamond  ring  which  he  passed  to  Clinton,  saying 

305 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"My  dear  Clinton — my  dear  friend — I  now 
pay  the  bet  I  made  five  years  ago,  for  I  am  going 
where  I  thought  I  would  never  go  again  in  my 
lifetime — East." 

"It  was  a  long  time  ago  that  we  made  the  bet," 
Eilen  said  as  he  slipped  the  ring  on  his  finger, 
"and  I  hope  our  friendship  will  long  outlast  the 
ring." 

Happy  indeed  was  "  Flo"  when  Clinton  informed 
her  that  they  were  going  to  Pennsylvania  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  their  days  there,  and  Mary  was 
sad  to  think  of  their  going.  She  and  her  husband 
would  keep  their  promise  and  take  the  long 
journey  to  visit  them,  and  hoped  they  would  all 
come  out  to  Denver  together  and  stay  with  them 
for  a  long  time. 

That  evening  and  far  into  the  night  Amos 
Barcon,  seated  in  Herman  Ridder's  parlor,  listened 
to  Mary's  recital  of  the  events  that  had  transpired 
since  that  night  when  he  had  gone  out  into  the 
storm  and  darkness  with  the  avowed  intention 
of  never  returning  or  of  being  heard  of  again. 
Herman  sat  with  them  and  took  great  interest 
in  the  story  as  it  unwound  itself  from  Mary's 
lips.  It  thrilled  Barcon  to  listen  to  the  old, 
familiar  names  and  to  the  touches  of  pathos  Mary 
lent  to  the  narrative  as  she  described  the  funeral 
of  Richard  Broakley  and  the  subsequent  death 

306 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

of  Mrs.  Broakley  and  then  of  Mr.  Broakley's 
sudden  passing  away,  to  be  buried  on  the  same 
day  as  his  wife.  She  had  a  good  memory,  had 
Mary,  and  when  she  wound  up  by  saying,  "And 
that  is  all,  Jim  Carbon,"  she  had  given  him  a 
vivid  description  of  the  events  that  had  taken 
place  in  the  interim  between  his  departure  and 
the  present  day.  Only  one  thing  did  she  forget, 
and  that  was  that  "Bill"  Couterre  was  serving 
a  life  sentence  for  the  murder  of  his  wife. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Amos 
emerged  from  Ridder's  house,  after  saying  many 
hearty  and  affectionate  farewells  to  that  happy 
pair. 


307 


TICK  THE  THIRTT-FOURTH 

IT  WAS  one  of  those  hot,  sultry,  listless  days 
in  July  that  I  was  ticking  away  the  hours  alone 
here  in  the  hallway  of  the  Boosch  homestead. 
Dr.  Boosch  and  his  wife  and  Myra  and  her 
daughter — also  named  Myra — were  seated  on  the 
porch.  The  good  doctor  was  asleep  in  his  arm 
chair,  with  the  big  Newfoundland  dog  Rover  by 
his  side.  Mrs.  Boosch  was  reading  a  paper,  her 
head  drooping  now  and  then,  as  if  she,  too,  were 
drowsy.  Myra  had  her  work  basket  in  her  lap, 
and  was  sewing  a  frock  for  her  little  daughter, 
now  four  and  a  half  years  old,  who  was  prattling 
by  her  side  and  building  houses  with  some  wooden 
blocks  that  bore  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and 
pictures  of  various  animals. 

A  spirit  of  content  pervaded  the  very  atmosphere. 
The  sky  was  cloudless  and  there  was  scarcely  a 
ripple  in  the  air,  save  now  and  then  when  a  slight 
breeze  would  lift  up  the  dust  from  the  road  and 
gently  twirl  it  around  like  a  miniature  inverted 
cloudburst,  only  to  die  out  again  and  leave  the 
sun  beating  relentlessly  down  upon  the  landscape. 
In  the  distance  the  mountains  were  veiled  with 

308 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

the  peculiar  haze  that  characterizes  a  hot  summer 
day. 

Myra,  whose  beauty  the  years  of  sorrow  could 
not  mar,  had  blossomed  into  full  womanhood. 
As  she  sat  on  the  porch  in  her  rocker,  with  the 
trailing  trumpet  vine  as  a  background,  sewing 
and  humming  a  tune,  she  made  a  picture  one 
could  not  readily  forget.  She  had  grown  a  trifle 
stouter,  and  the  supple  lines  of  girlhood  had 
given  way  to  the  well-developed  proportions  of 
motherhood.  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  brightly  as 
ever,  though  tinged  with  sadness  at  times,  and 
her  cheeks,  fanned  by  the  listless  breeze,  were  as 
rosy  as  in  former  years. 

She  was  gazing  in  an  abstracted  manner  down 
the  lane,  now,  her  work  basket  lying  idly  in  her 
lap,  dreaming  of  the  past,  when  suddenly  she 
gave  a  start,  and  with  a  cry  to  her  father  and 
mother,  called  their  attention  to  a  familiar  figure 
swinging  steadily  up  the  main  road.  Nearer  and 
nearer  he  came,  his  eyes  fixedly  set  upon  the 
homestead,  until  with  steady  tread  the  big,  scrawny 
figure  swung  into  the  lane. 

Dr.  Boosch  and  his  wife  had  started  up  at 
Myra's  cry  and  were  intently  watching  the  figure 
coming  up  the  road.  Myra  stood  as  one  trans 
fixed  until  the  figure  came  into  full  view  of  the 
house.  When  the  face  of  the  man  became  visible 

3°9 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Myra  sprang  from  her  chair  and  cried  out  to  her 
parents: 

"Father!  Mother!  It's  Jim  Carbon — my  hus 
band!" 

Myra  bounded  from  the  porch  and  darted  down 
the  lane.  Dr.  Boosch  and  his  wife,  uttering  an 
exclamation  of  surprise,  followed  her,  with  little 
Myra  and  Rover  in  close  pursuit,  in  full  enjoy 
ment  of  the  ecstatic  pleasure  that  was  shown 
by  the  gray-haired  couple.  An  instant  later 
Jim  Carbon  and  Myra,  his  wife,  were  locked 
in  each  other's  arms,  Myra  weeping  from  joy, 
and  Carbon,  his  eyes  lifted  to  heaven,  offering 
up  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  for  this  moment  of 
bliss  that  he  had  never  even  dreamed  was  to  be. 

It  is  beyond  me  to  describe  that  meeting  of 
those  so  long  separated.  What  earnest,  heartfelt, 
sincere  joy  there  was  in  the  welcome  from  the 
good  doctor  and  his  good  wife.  Never  was 
prodigal  son  so  welcomed  upon  his  return.  How 
the  doctor's  kindly  eyes  beamed  as  he  stroked 
the  big,  rough  hand  of  Jim  Carbon,  while  Mrs. 
Boosch,  her  face  aglow  with  the  happy  content 
of  one  who  has  heard  a  prayer  answered,  was 
unable  to  contain  herself  and  had  to  give  vent  to 
her  supreme  joy  by  kissing  them  all,  giving  Jim 
twice  as  many  as  the  others  got. 

My,   my,   my!     Is   it   any  wonder  that   I    ran 

310 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

way  ahead  of  time  when  I  heard  that  familiar 
step  upon  the  porch  stoop  that  I  had  not  heard 
for  years  ?  Little  wonder,  I  say,  that  I  did  not 
stop  altogether  for  a  time  when  I  heard  the  voice 
of  Jim  Carbon  again  after  these  many  years. 
And  to  see  him,  with  his  arms  around  Myra's 
waist  and  her  eyes  looking  soulfully  in  admira 
tion  of  the  big,  scrawny  fellow  who  had  willingly 
offered  himself  as  a  sacrifice  was  enough  to 
recompense  me  for  all  the  sadness  that  I  had  seen 
in  those  beautiful  eyes  of  Myra's.  He  was  the 
same  Jim  Carbon  as  of  yore — his  clean-shaven 
face — not  handsome,  by  any  manner  of  means, 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  say — lighted  up  with  love 
and  kindliness,  shone  to-day,  when  he  stood  in 
front  of  me,  with  a  lovelight  that  was  pure  and 
good.  And  his  wife,  his  Myra,  returned  that 
lovelight  with  one  that  had  been  ripened  and 
mellowed  by  the  years  of  knowledge  that  the 
man  she  had  wed  was  one  of  the  truest  and  noblest 

of  men,  even  though  he  had  been  only  "the  hired 

» 
man. 

After  their  transport  of  joy  had  abated  some 
what  the  good  doctor  insisted  upon  Carbon  going 
up  to  his  room,  which,  he  told  him,  would  be 
found  exactly  as  when  he  had  left  it.  He  went 
up  with  him,  unlocked  the  door,  pulled  up  the 
shades,  opened  the  windows  for  the  first  time  in 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

five  years,  and  there  was  the  room  precisely  as 
it  was  on  that  memorable  night  when  Jim  Carbon 
and  Myra  had  been  married  and  when  he  had  last 
seen  it.  After  a  long  talk  together,  Dr.  Boosch 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  Jim  sitting  on 
the  chair  by  his  side,  the  doctor  related  how  Myra 
had  gradually  recovered  from  her  grief  at  the 
death  of  Richard  Broakley  and  how  he  had  tried 
to  instil  in  her  mind  the  noble  sacrifice  Carbon 
had  made,  and  then  gradually  urging  on  the 
respect  and  love  that  were  beginning  to  grow  in 
her  heart  for  him.  Carbon  listened  in  silence 
to  the  good  doctor's  words  of  praise,  and  when 
he  had  finished  he  narrated  all  that  he  and  Eilen 
had  gone  through  in  the  five  years  that  had  passed. 
They  returned  to  the  porch,  and  there,  seated 
by  Myra's  side,  Carbon  related  to  her  the  experi 
ences  he  and  Eilen  had  had,  dwelling  lightly 
upon  the  hardships  they  had  undergone,  but 
speaking  at  great  length  of  the  goodness  of  Clinton 
and  his  ambition  to  win  his  Florence.  They  sat 
there,  chatting  and  laughing,  until  supper  time. 
Dr.  Boosch  had  dispatched  one  of  the  farmboys 
on  horseback  to  bear  the  tidings  of  Carbon's 
return  to  Mr.  Maujer,  and  when  he  arrived — he 
lost  little  time,  I  can  tell  you — he  awoke  again 
the  rejoicing  that  had  taken  place  in  the  afternoon. 
My,  but  wasn't  he  glad  to  see  Jim  Carbon — the 

312 


Jim  and  Myra,  arm  in  arm,  like  lovers,  walked  in  the  cool 
of  the   evening 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

man  he  considered  one  of  the  very  best  of  men! 
I  thought  they  would  never  stop  shaking  hands. 
And  when  he  said  grace  at  the  table  didn't  he 
sing  a  paean  of  praise  for  the  good  man  who  had 
returned  to  them  and  for  whom  he  asked,  again 
and  again,  God's  blessing  ? 

After  supper  Jim  and  Myra,  arm  in  arm  like 
lovers,  walked  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  over  the 
paths  they  had  so  often  gone  before,  but  not  thus 
linked  together,  and  during  that  walk  he  told  her 
of  the  love  that  had  been  hers  from  the  very  day 
that  her  father  had  introduced  him  as  the  "new 
man  to  help  about  the  farm."  He  spoke  deeply, 
passionately,  did  Jim  Carbon,  telling  her  that 
his  love  was  as  unselfish  as  it  was  unbidden.  He 
told  her  how  his  heart  had  throbbed  when  he 
had  received  her  letter,  and  prayed  that  they 
would  live  many  years  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his 
toil  and  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  each  other's  love. 
Like  lovers  those  two  walked  along,  and  when 
they  returned  little  Myra  ran  up  to  greet  them. 
Carbon  picked  her  up  in  his  strong  arms  and 
tossed  her  in  the  air  and  romped  and  played  with 
her,  and  a  deep  affection  for  the  counterpart  of 
his  wife  sprang  up  in  that  big  heart  of  Carbon's — 
but  who  could  help  loving  that  bright,  pretty, 
vivacious  little  child  ? 

After  little  Myra  had  been  put  to  bed  by  her 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

grandmother,  who  would  not  relinquish  that 
precious  task  to  any  one  else,  they  all  sat  in  the 
parlor  together,  discussing  various  matters  con 
nected  with  themselves  and  with  the  neighbors, 
when  Mr.  Maujer  asked  Carbon  if  he  had  heard 
about "  Bill"  Couterre,  to  which  Jim  replied  that  he 
had  not — what  had  happened  to  him  ?  Mr.  Maujer 
then  related  the  whole  affair  to  him.  Carbon 
listened  intently,  and  when  the  minister  had 
arrived  at  that  stage  describing  how  Couterre 
had  come  from  the  barn  in  his  stormcoat  and 
oilskin  hat,  that  night  of  the  i8th  of  June  five 
years  ago,  in  that  terrific  storm,  and  that  a  moment 
thereafter  his  wife  had  been  shot  and  the  barn  set 
on  fire,  Carbon  started  as  if  seized  with  a  sudden 
inspiration.  He  questioned  the  minister  closely, 
and  as  Mr.  Maujer  explained  the  evidence  on  which 
Couterre  had  been  convicted,  Jim  cried  out: 

"My  God,  that  man  is  as  innocent  of  that  crime 
as  I  am!  I  was  the  man  who  came  out  of  the 
barn  that  night,  having  borrowed  Couterre's 
storm  outfit.  And  when  I  turned  down  the 
road  I  saw  the  barn  ablaze.  Why,  it  couldn't 
have  been  Couterre,"  continued  Carbon,  heatedly, 
"for  I  met  him  in  East  Stroudsburg;  he  could 
not  have  walked  there,  in  the  condition  he  was  in, 
in  less  time  than  I  could,  for  I  went  at  a  pretty 
good  pace.  There  is  some  dreadful  mistake." 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Maujer,  a  hope 
in  which  Myra  and  the  good  doctor  and  his  wife 
joined.  There  was  silence  for  a  while,  Carbon 
remaining  in  deep  thought.  Suddenly  he  sprang 
from  his  chair. 

"I  have  it!  I  have  it!"  he  emphatically 
declared.  "Couterre  always  kept  his  gun  ready 
loaded  and  cocked,  and  that  stroke  of  lightning 
set  the  gun  off,  and  it  was  hanging  pointed  toward 
Mrs.  Couterre's  window.  That's  what  happened. 
Great  heavens!  And  Couterre  has  languished  in 
jail  all  this  time  without  my  knowing  it.  Doctor 
—Mr.  Maujer — to-morrow  I  must  set  to  work  to 
right  one  of  the  greatest  wrongs  that  was  ever 
perpetrated." 

Carbon  at  once  mapped  out  a  plan  for  securing 
Couterre's  release  at  the  earliest  possible  moment, 
and  said  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  go  to  the 
judge  and  each  member  of  the  jury  and  secure 
their  signatures  to  a  petition  asking  for  his  im 
mediate  pardon.  He  would  hire  the  best  of 
counsel,  that  justice  might  be  done  at  once. 

The  following  morning  Myra,  radiant  with 
delight,  and  Carbon  by  her  side,  beaming  with 
joy  and  happiness,  started  on  their  drive  to  visit 
the  various  members  of  the  jury  that  had  con 
victed  Couterre.  What  a  lovely  morning  it  was, 
and  how  Carbon's  eyes  drank  in  the  scenery  to 

315 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

which  he  had  been  a  stranger  for  so  long.  Passing 
by  the  little  churchyard  where  lay  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Broakley  and  Richard,  Carbon  heaved  a  sigh, 
which  was  echoed  by  Myra.  She  knew  now  who 
had  placed  that  monument  there,  towering  above 
the  little  tombstones,  inscribed  "For  her  sake." 
She  said  nothing,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  as  she 
turned  toward  her  husband  spoke  volumes  of 
gratitude  for  his  veneration  for  the  dead. 

On  the  way  to  town  they  stopped  at  the  Broakley 
Farm,  now  occupied  by  Mr.  Charles  Farson, 
husband  of  the  former  widow  Brownson.  And 
maybe  she  wasn't  surprised  and  glad  to  see  Jim 
Carbon.  Maybe  she  didn't  go  up  and  kiss  him 
right  in  front  of  his  wife  and  in  front  of  her  hus 
band,  too.  And  maybe  Mr.  Farson  didn't  con 
gratulate  Myra  upon  the  return  of  her  husband, 
who  had  been  such  a  kind  friend  to  his  wife  when 
she  was  so  sorely  in  need  of  spiritual  and  financial 
help,  for  she  had  ever  sounded  his  virtues  to  her 
husband  when  all  others  were  condemning  him. 
And  maybe  Myra  wasn't  proud  of  the  big,  husky 
fellow  who  handed  her  in  and  out  of  the  carriage 
as  if  she  were  the  most  precious  of  all  things. 
And  maybe  she  wasn't  prouder  still  at  the  hearty 
greetings  that  were  accorded  them  as  they  drove 
along  and  passed  by  the  neighbors  at  work  on 
their  farms  or  driving  to  town. 

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A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

My!  but  how  the  news  spread  that  Jim  Carbon 
had  returned — and  a  rich  man,  too!  When 
Carbon  explained  and  made  clear  to  the  jurymen 
that  Couterre  was  an  innocent  man  and  secured 
their  signatures  asking  for  his  pardon,  they  drove 
to  the  judge's  house  and  presented  the  signed 
petition,  and  that  man  of  justice,  after  listening 
to  Carbon's  lucid  explanation  of  the  whole  affair, 
promised  him  that  Couterre  would  not  remain  in 
prison  one  moment  longer  than  he  could  help. 

In  the  evening  Myra  wrote  to  Mary  Ridder, 
telling  her  how  full  her  cup  of  happiness  was 
and  how  she  longed  to  see  her  again,  while  Jim 
indited  a  long  letter  to  his  dear  friend  Clinton, 
in  which  he  told  him  to  give  his  "  regards  to  Amos 
Barcon  if  he  saw  him,"  and  urging  him  to  settle 
up  his  affairs  and  come  home  to  "God's  country" 
as  soon  as  he  could.  He  did  not  forget  to  write 
to  Mr.  Pell,  either,  you  may  rest  assured — it  was 
the  longest  letter  that  that  good  soul  ever  received, 
I  am  sure,  and  at  the  end  were  a  few  lines  from 
Myra,  in  which  she  stated  that  though  she  had 
never  seen  him,  her  dear  husband  had  so  im 
pressed  her  with  his  goodness  that  she  would 
welcome  the  day  when  she  could  personally 
thank  him  for  his  many  kindnesses  to  her  Jim. 

Carbon's  devotion  to  Myra  was  the  talk  of 
Monroe  County,  for  he  was  ever  by  her  side,  and 

317 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

many  there  were  who  wondered  how  so  good  a 
man  could  ever  have  been  so  wicked  as  to  have 
deserted  so  true  a  woman  as  Myra.  It  was  rare 
that  one  went  without  the  other,  and  the  love 
that  had  grown  in  Myra's  heart  for  Jim  Carbon 
in  his  absence  had  so  ripened  that  she  idolized 
the  big,  awkward,  scrawny  man.  And  when 
Arthur  Boosch  suddenly  came  home  from  one  of 
his  trips  he  was  the  most  astonished  and  happiest 
man  in  the  country  to  shake  hands  with  him 
again.  It  made  Jim  smile  when  Arthur  told  him 
that  he  had  met  "Hank"  Decker  in  Philadelphia, 
where  he  was  working  in  a  canning  factory,  and 
that  he  had  delivered  such  a  tirade  against  feminin 
ity  in  general,  and  widows  in  particular,  as  could 
only  emanate  from  a  man  whose  highest  hopes 
had  been  blasted. 

Such  a  roundelay  of  pleasure  trips  followed 
Carbon's  return,  each  one  vying  with  the  other 
to  do  honor  to  him  and  to  his  pretty  wife.  What 
a  lot  of  company  they  had — all  the  young  couples 
and  lovers  in  the  county  seeming  to  enjoy  the 
romance  of  the  Carbons.  And  more  and  more 
attached  to  each  other  became  Jim  and  little  Myra, 
so  much  so  that  when  she  was  taken  ill  and  her 
life  despaired  of  for  a  time,  he  never  left  her  side, 
day  or  night,  but  kept  vigil  with  Myra  until  the 
crisis  had  passed. 

318 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

A  month  later  Couterre  came  home  a  free  man 
— white-haired  and  broken  down  in  health.  Who 
can  realize  the  sufferings  that  he  had  undergone  ? 
Who  can  understand  the  joy  that  was  in  the  hearts 
of  his  children  when  he  returned  ?  Jim  Carbon, 
feeling  that  he  was  in  a  measure  responsible  for 
the  great  wrong  that  had  been  done  Couterre, 
made  reparation  by  settling  upon  him  a  comfort 
able  annuity  that  freed  him  from  financial  worries 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

The  following  summer  Clinton  Eilen  and  his 
wife  and  Mr.  Pell  came — the  former  to  make 
their  home  permanently  in  East  Stroudsburg  and 
the  latter  only  for  a  visit.  Surprised,  indeed, 
was  Myra  when  she  found  that  Clinton's  wife 
had  been  Florence  Vercool,  for  Jim  had  never 
mentioned  her  maiden  name.  They  had  met 
before,  years  ago,  when  Florence  had  stopped 
at  the  Marshall's  Falls  Hotel.  Those  two  became 
as  sisters,  and  scarcely  a  day  passed  that  they  did 
not  see  each  other. 

Herman  Ridder  had  left  the  employ  of  the 
Cornelia  Mining  Company  and  had  gone  out  to 
California,  where  he  had  established  himself  as  a 
prosperous  fruit  merchant.  He  had  promised 
that  the  following  year  he  and  Mary  would  come 
East  for  a  long  visit  and  bring  with  them  little 
Herman.  Mr.  Pell  remained  for  a  month,  and 

319 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

when  he  left  it  was  with  the  determination  to  return 
as  soon  as  he  had  settled  his  affairs,  as  he  had 
no  ties  to  bind  him  to  Denver  and  wished  to  end 
his  declining  years  near  his  dearest  friends. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  that  year  that  there  was  a 
great  commotion  in  the  Boosch  homestead,  for 
unto  James  Carbon  and  Myra  a  child  had  been 
born — unto  them  a  son  was  given.  And  it  was 
not  so  very  long  after  that  that  the  good  doctor 
had  decided  to  give  up  the  old  homestead  and 
live  with  his  daughter,  for  they  had  improved 
the  house  in  East  Stroudsburg  that  Mrs.  Broakley 
had  willed  to  Myra  and  had  urged  the  good  doctor 
and  his  wife  to  live  with  them — to  end  their  days 
in  peace  and  comfort. 

And  so,  with  the  passing  from  the  old  Boosch 
homestead,  I,  too,  the  old  family  clock,  was  moved 
to  East  Stroudsburg,  where  I  was  placed  in  the 
spacious  spare  room  in  the  attic,  to  tick  away 
my  remaining  days  of  usefulness. 


320 


RUNNING  DOWN 

AND  now,  ticking  away  up  here  in  the  attic, 
I  see  before  me,  as  the  memories  of  the  past  arise, 
sweet  Myra  and  honest  Jim  Carbon  seated  upon 
the  verandah  of  their  new  home,  surrounded  by 
the  good  doctor  and  his  wife,  and  Arthur,  and 
Clinton  and  Florence  Eilen,  and  Mr.  Pell,  and 
Herman  Ridder  and  Mary,  who  had  come  to  visit 
them,  watching  the  play  of  the  children — little 
Myra  and  her  baby  brother,  James  Richard, 
and  little  Herman  Ridder.  There  are  peace 
and  happiness  depicted  upon  all  as  they  rock 
to  and  fro,  the  men  smoking  contentedly  and  the 
women  chatting  and  laughing  at  the  sallies  of  wit 
from  Clinton. 

I  see  before  me  now,  as  I  did  in  the  years  agone, 
passing  in  review  in  my  refreshed  memory— 

The  good  doctor  and  Mrs.  Boosch,  living 
contentedly  and  happily  with  their  children  and 
grandchildren,  spending  their  days  in  that  tran- 
quility  and  peace  that  is  apportioned  to  those 
whose  lives  have  been  useful  and  whose  mellowing 
years  are  blessed  with  the  fruits  of  pure  and 
righteous  living. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Arthur  Boosch,  married  to  the  pretty,  lively, 
little  forty-second-or-something  cousin,  Frances 
Transer,  who  had  become  indignant  when  he  had 
kissed  her  so  flagrantly  before  the  merry  party 
assembled  at  the  Boosch  homestead  that  Christmas 
Eve.  Settled  down  is  he  now,  one  of  the  promi 
nent,  substantial  business  men  in  Philadelphia, 
but  spending  much  of  his  time  with  his  dear 
sister  and  Jim  Carbon.  They  have  two  sons, 
and  Arthur  rejoices  thereat,  for  in  them  lies  the 
hope  of  perpetuating  the  name  of  Boosch. 

Clinton  and  Florence  Eilen,  whose  love  for 
each  other  is  as  deep  as  ever,  the  streaks  of  gray 
in  their  hair  betokening  the  advancing  years. 
Childless  are  they,  but  the  love  for  Myra's  children 
fills  to  some  extent  the  void  they  feel.  Ever 
faithful  to  Myra  has  been  Florence,  and  of  Clin 
ton's  friendship  for  Jim  Carbon  it  may  be  said 
that  it  rings  true  as  steel. 

George  Pell,  that  man  so  beloved  by  all  for  his 
generosity  and  charity  to  the  unfortunate,  basking 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  deep  friendship  of  all  who 
knew  him,  particularly  Jim  Carbon  and  Clinton 
Eilen,  living  a  life  of  comfort  and  ease,  spending 
his  days  wandering  about  the  country  and  his 
nights  with  his  dear  friends. 

David  Maujer,  minister,  man  of  God,  devoting 
his  life  to  Christian  work  and  spreading  the  Word, 

322 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

ever  grateful  to  Dr.  Boosch  for  his  uplifting,  succor 
ing  the  poor  and  needy,  encouraging  the  afflicted, 
rejoicing  with  those  whose  lives  had  been  blessed 
with  health  and  prosperity  and  praying  for  those 
whom  misfortune  and  death  had  overtaken.  It 
was  a  lifework  of  yours,  David  Maujer,  and  when 
the  Father  of  us  all  calls  you  home  He  may  well 
say,  "Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant." 

William  Couterre,  stanchest  of  Jim  Carbon's 
many  friends,  whose  lips  have  never  tasted  a  drop 
of  liquor  since  that  memorable  i8th  day  of  June, 
living  a  peaceful  life,  free  from  toil,  and  regaining 
by  degrees  the  vitality  that  had  been  sapped  by 
five  years  of  solitary  confinement.  Ever  green 
is  the  grave  of  his  wife,  and  his  daily  visits  to  it 
make  him  feel  that  she  is  still  with  him  and  is  full 
of  forgiveness  for  the  hours  of  sorrow  he  caused  her 
by  his  periods  of  dissipation.  Alice  is  married 
now,  but  still  lives  with  him  and  helps  to  brighten 
his  life,  while  Tom  and  the  other  children  never 
forget  that  though  he  had  been  harsh  to  them 
when  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  he  had  been 
the  kindest  of  fathers  when  sober.  Never  a 
week  passes  that  Jim  Carbon  and  Myra,  with 
Mr.  Maujer,  do  not  drive  out  to  see  him  and  the 
children  and  cheer  and  encourage  them. 

Mrs.  Farson,  ever  grateful  to  Jim  Carbon  for 
his  goodness  to  her  when  she  was  the  widow 

323 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

Brownson,  living  a  happy  life  with  her  second  hus 
band,  the  second  brood  of  children  getting  along 
famously  with  the  first.  Stout  has  she  grown, 
and  when  she  steps  into  the  carriage  it  sags  very 
much  to  one  side  until  Mr.  Farson  also  steps  in, 
when  it  is  equally  balanced,  for  he,  too,  has  gained 
in  weight  under  the  good  care  and  good  cooking 
of  his  dear  partner. 

And  as  they  pass  in  review  there  looms  up  in 
my  dimming  vision  Mary  Ridder — Mary  Lash 
that  was  —  most  devoted  wife  and  mother.  I 
hear  again  your  infectious  laugh,  I  see  again  your 
ruddy,  sunshiny  face.  Time  has  passed,  my 
Mary,  but  time  has  not  withered  the  flower  that 
has  blossomed  with  the  ripening  years — and  as  the 
petals  of  the  departing  seasons  drop  off  one  by 
one  they  have  left  the  flower  more  beautiful  in 
the  surroundings  of  the  buds  it  has  brought  into 
the  world — your  two  sons  and  two  daughters — 
radiating  loving  kindness  and  devotion.  A  worthy 
husband  has  been  the  man,  now  silvery  white, 
who  knew  no  love  but  yours — who  knew  no  joy 
that  could  not  be  shared  by  you,  whose  closing 
eyes  will  see  no  one  but  you — your  dear  husband 
and  protector  through  life,  Herman. 

Often  and  often,  in  the  twilight  hour,  on  your 
visit  here  to  your  dear  friends,  have  I  heard  you 
two  recount  the  days  when  the  mine  superin- 

324 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

tendent  loved  the  little  milliner,  and  then — well, 
there  comes  from  your  lips  an  earnest,  sincere, 
heartfelt  thankfulness  to  the  man  to  whom  you 
owe  so  much  of  your  well-deserved  happiness — 
Jim  Carbon. 

And  as  the  years  flit  by,  I  see  again  before  me 
the  good  doctor,  grieving  over  the  passing  into 
the  great  beyond  of  his  good  wife,  but  putting 
his  trust,  as  ever,  in  the  Almighty,  living  in  the 
hope  of  that  meeting  in  the  heavenly  kingdom. 
I  see  again  before  me,  in  after  years,  the  good 
doctor  sitting  on  the  verandah,  in  the  twilight 
hour,  a  peaceful  smile  upon  his  lips.  I  see  him 
there,  in  his  big  armchair,  gazing  out  upon  the 
lawn  at  his  grandchildren  with  the  contentment 
that  follows  a  life  well  lived,  and  with  the  sinking 
of  the  sun  in  the  western  hills  I  see  him,  with  his 
eyes  closed,  that  smile  still  upon  his  lips,  but  now 
of  death,  for  as  his  life  had  been  lived  so  in 
the  tranquility  of  the  evening  the  Reaper  had 
taken  him  away,  and  so  there  had  passed  away 
peacefully,  without  pain,  without  struggle,  a  man 
of  whom  it  was  said  that  he  personified  the  highest 
ideal  of  manhood — a  man  who  was  honest  with 
himself,  honest  with  his  friends,  and,  above  all, 
honest  with  his  God. 

I  see  again  before  me,  you,  my  dear  Myra, 
leaning  against  my  wornout  old  frame,  alone 

325 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

here  in  the  attic,  your  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
sobbing  as  if  your  heart  were  breaking,  giving  vent 
to  the  grief  that  was  yours  upon  the  taking  from 
you  of  your  dear,  kind,  loving  father — than  whom 
none  better  ever  lived — whose  every  care  was  for  his 
daughter,  whose  every  thought  was  of  her,  whose 
whole  life  seemed  wrapped  up  in  her.  Oh,  how 
he  loved  you,  my  Myra,  from  the  day  when  he 
said  to  me,  "A  daughter,  eh,  Mister  Clock?" 
Such  a  warm,  deep,  paternal  love  was  that — 
such  a  love  as  shines  refulgent  above  all  other 
earthly  loves,  whether  of  brother,  lover,  or  hus 
band.  I  see  your  dear  husband,  Jim  Carbon, 
coming  up  the  stairs  to  find  you  here,  alone  with 
me,  and  with  the  warmth  of  his  love  dispelling 
the  tears  and  lightening  the  grief  that  was  yours, 
as  he  put  his  arms  about  your  neck  and  folded 
you  to  his  breast. 

And  now  that  I  am  running  down  and  beginning 
to  feel  that  my  days  of  usefulness  are  over,  I  con 
jure  up  before  me  sweet  Myra,  who  comes  up  to 
see  me  often,  for  she  still  loves  the  old  family 
clock  that  has  ticked  so  faithfully  through  the 
storms  and  sunshine  of  her  life.  I  see  her  before 
me  now,  her  face  still  beautiful,  though  crowned 
with  hair  that  is  becoming  silvery;  her  eyes,  still 
sparkling  as  of  old ;  her  form  as  erect  as  ever,  full 
of  love  for  her  husband  and  children.  There  is  a 

326 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

smile  of  peace  and  contentment  upon  her  lips, 
for  after  the  tempestuous  days  her  ship  of  life  is 
riding  upon  smooth  waters,  guided  by  the  faithful 
love  and  trust  of  her  dear  husband.  Her  daughter, 
now  grown  to  womanhood,  is  ever  by  her  side, 
and  when  she  comes  up  to  look  upon  my  face  I 
see  before  me  the  Myra  of  olden  times,  for  she  is 
the  exact  counterpart  of  her  mother.  Her  son, 
James  Richard,  a  young  collegian,  is  the  pride 
of  his  father  and  mother,  and  often  in  the  evening, 
when  home  for  vacation  or  for  the  holidays,  he 
sits  by  his  father's  side  and  listens  to  the  story 
of  the  struggles  Clinton  Eilen  and  Jim  Carbon 
had  to  win  their  fortunes  in  the  far  Western 
country.  A  big,  strong  fellow  is  he,  and  his  affec 
tion  for  his  parents  and  sister  is  deep  and  pure. 

I  see  before  me  again  you,  Jim  Carbon,  man 
whom  I  loved,  whose  voice  was  as  music  to  me, 
whose  ever-smiling  face  dispelled  the  gloom  and 
darkness  in  those  days  of  tribulation,  whose  very 
step  I  had  learned  to  know.  Oh,  that  the  world 
were  peopled  with  more  such  men  as  you,  Jim 
Carbon — so  good,  so  kind,  so  true,  so  manly! 
I  see  your  big  figure,  now  a  little  bent  with  age, 
loom  up  before  me,  as  you  pass  your  hand  through 
your  whitened  hair,  and  gaze  upon  me,  your 
thoughts  running  through  the  past,  uttering  a 
prayer  of  thankfulness  for  the  love  that  is  yours — 

327 


A  KNIGHT  IN  HOMESPUN 

that  of  your  good  wife,  Myra.  Deep  and  lasting 
has  been  your  affection  for  her,  I  know,  and 
worthy  of  all  the  happiness  and  content  that  has 
been  yours  have  you  been,  Jim  Carbon.  May 
the  Father,  when  He  takes  you  home,  grant  you 
the  highest  seat  upon  the  throne  of  grace,  and 
may  you  have  by  your  side  the  one  you  so  loved. 
And  now,  ricking  softer  and  softer,  up  here  in 
the  attic,  there  arise  the  notes  of  that  favorite 
song  of  Myra's,  and  I  hear  your  voices,  though 
tremulous,  blending  in  sweet  harmony,  singing: 

"When  your  eyes  so  bright  have  lost  their  light, 
Your  voice  so  dear  no  longer  here; 
When  you're  called  home  and  I'm  alone, 
I  won't  know  what  to  do. 
If  the  Master  knew  how  Pd  miss  you, 
I  wonder  if  He'd  take  me  too  ? 
Twould  break  my  heart  if  we  should  part, 
For  I've  grown  so  used  to  you." 

Ah,  me!  My  tale  is  told — I  have  told  it  in  my 
plain,  old-fashioned  way — and  now  I  feel  that 
I  have  run  down,  for  with  each  succeeding  tick 
it  has  become  more  and  more  laborious  until,  with 
a  pulsating,  tremulous,  vibratory  effort  to  keep 
on,  I  cannot  do  so  any  longer,  and  so  I,  the  old- 
fashioned  family  clock,  pointing  to  the  midnight 
hour,  have  stopped — forever. 

328 


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RECD  JUN 


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